In My Power
by Emilie Fauve
Summary: Carlisle's chronicle of how each member in his family came to join him in immortality. True to character and canon. Pre-Twilight; rated for medical situations and mature themes. 2009 Eddie Award Nominee!
1. Powerless

_I am incredibly indebted to my kickass beta, locqua. Words do not convey my gratitude._

_I do not own Twilight; but perhaps if I write this well enough, Stephenie Meyer will give me Carlisle. Not the rights, just Carlisle._

_

* * *

_

Powerless; I was entirely powerless. One of the most almighty beings in the created universe, and there I sat—hiding like a devil in the dark of my home from the daylight, praying to God to save just one more when the sun finally sank below the horizon.

* * *

This could not be some strain of influenza; surely, it had to be a plague sent by God to destroy the Earth. Most of the fatalities were healthy young adults, while the usual victims of influenza were infants, the elderly—those immunocompromised. It didn't make sense.

"The Spanish Flu," they called it, but I knew better. This didn't start in Spain, it started right here in the middle of the United States—a freak mutation of influenza, highly contagious, with a high mortality rate. The heat of that summer, 1918, weakened the virus and the cases were too few and far between to be noteworthy; but in Europe, the virus quietly took control like a tyrant. And as the United States sent more of their men to war, they could not know that a more terrifying mortal enemy would soon follow their heroes home like a silent assassin.

By the beginning of September it was a pandemic, worldwide, and I was working overnight in the makeshift hospitals in Boston alongside the baffled local physicians. I spent the daylight hours in my study with every medical book in print, searching, analyzing, praying for any small detail that my peers may have missed.

It was the inherent nature of the illness that eventually gave me the answer: the virus caused the immune system to attack the body. Those whose immune systems were already weakened had a lower fatality rate because their bodies were not strong enough to attack themselves.

It was an answer, yes, but also a frustrating paradox. It came and left me with no further recourse, save for continuing to strengthen the weak, and maintain the strength of the strong.

Shortly after this discovery, the Spanish Influenza hit Chicago. On September 11, the first cases were reported—within a week, the hospital had been overrun with over 2,600 men and all able physicians were called to assist.

I responded immediately, resigning my post in Boston to face the grim situation in Chicago. It was too late to stop this disease, but by God I was going to do everything in my power to battle it.

* * *

I didn't understand how the human doctors were able to do it, day in and day out. I felt a sense of mental fatigue, personally, but being an immortal could never bring me anywhere close to experiencing the wear a human would undoubtedly feel in this kind of work. Watching each patient suffer in a collective, yet entirely exclusive manner was utter torture to the soul—holding the fevered hands of the fathers, mothers, daughters, and sons dying on soiled cots and filthy floors, praying for and with them in their final moments on this Earth. If I could have given my immortality to rid the world of this scourge, I would have done it in a moment.

Then came the day that would be forever called "Black Thursday:" October 17. Nearly five hundred people died that day, thousands of new cases appearing as the virus spread. I emerged from my home that evening, just after dusk. Walking toward the hospital, I politely lifted my hat to the few passers-by who risked exposure in their travels. My overcoat did little to hide my trade, and they all responded with a respectful nod. Their expressions darkened against the politeness of their greeting.

I was little more than an undertaker.

Arriving at the hospital, I joined several other doctors as we took over the night shift, relieving the exhausted daytime staff. In was as I had anticipated, for in as much time as it took us to remove ten bodies, fifteen more managed to filter in. I watched in complete anguish, my un-beating heart gripped in agony as patient after patient died struggling to clear their airways of the blood-tinged froth that frequently gushed from their noses and mouths. Family members were no longer able to see their ill-fated loved ones—the risk for contracting the sickness was too great.

As the late hours of the morning approached, Dr. Wagner approached me, insisting I take a break. I wished the pretense of humanity were unnecessary. There was so much work to be done—how many more would be lost due to this necessary guise of mortality? But what difference would it make if the world knew what I was? _None._

The answer did nothing to soothe the ache in my soul.

Weary with grief, I walked past a mother and son in the overcrowded waiting room as they received the news of their husband and father's death. The woman collapsed in a chair, unable to muffle the loud sobs tearing from her throat. Without a moment's pause, the doctor who delivered the news left abruptly.

The boy's face twisted in grief for a moment; then, carefully composing himself, he sat next to his mother, wrapping his arms around her and tucking her head under his chin so she would not see his pain.

How could that doctor just leave them there without a word of sympathy or condolence? I wanted so badly to walk over to them, but my feet held fast to their path. I could not get involved with humans; it was too risky. I had to keep up the façade and stoic professionalism.

I watched the scene from across the room, realizing absently that I must look like a statue—my hand still gripping the handle of the break room door, my unblinking stare trapped by the distressed pair. I recognized them, and instantly searched through the faces of the past few days in my memory until I found who I was looking for.

As quickly as his face appeared, so did his report—I had written it personally. Edward Masen was his name, and his wife and son had carried him here two days ago, unconscious, from their home. I knew instantly there was nothing we could do for him, but I admitted him nonetheless. The two never left the waiting area, even after repeated clarification that they could not see him. He hadn't regained consciousness as of two this morning, his breathing had been labored to the point of suffocation. He had died.

_Don't get involved._

Just as I began to turn the handle, the boy's piercing green eyes, softened by the unshed tears, met mine, and for a brief moment it was as though he could hear my comforting thoughts reaching out to them. His eyes mirrored my own--sympathy and consolation. He understood, though my words could not convey my wishes.

A staff member walked past and the spell was broken. The boy's attention returned to his mother, and I quickly entered the room, quietly closing the door behind me.

Sitting in the makeshift break room, a closet-turned-sanctuary, I tried to clear my head and think of how and when this could end. _No, better not to think about it at all._ I had to be strong for my patients and the other doctors, because none of them could be for themselves, at least not in the way that I could. And yet I had to work under this guise of weakness. Perhaps it would be best to think of something else for a while, and give my despairing mind a rest for the sake of sanity.

What else did I have to think of? The three brothers in Volterra. I wondered idly how this disease was affecting the humans in Italy—their main source of nourishment.

But that was it, wasn't it? No matter what was going on in the world, they still had their brotherhood. Every war, every famine, every human catastrophe barely affected our kind. But I wasn't our kind. I was my own kind; a wolf whose sheepskin was nearly his own due to years of careful practice, a god-among-men whose own brethren found his morals degrading. I sighed in discouragement.

For nearly a century, I had searched for someone, another vampire who could see the humanity in themselves and would seek to amplify those qualities. Vampires must have some purpose in this world, just as humans do, but how will we ever seek to find the means to a non-existent end if we never look for it? We may all be eternally damned for what my father knew, but I couldn't see it that way. God had given me my purpose in life, and even if it sentenced me to eternal solitude, I was going to fulfill that purpose for whatever hope of salvation it might bring me.

_But why must you go through it alone—even God had a son. Someone with whom you could share your life, know you for who you really are, rather than the human you pretend to be?_

I sucked in a breath, the involuntary action meant to purge such evil thoughts from my head—I could never cause someone to go through the awful transformation from man to vampire.

The sudden intake of air snapped me out of my thoughts as the smell of disease permeated my senses. I felt my outward resolve begin to crumble and I fell to the floor, the ache inside causing me to clutch at my heart, where it ought to have been throbbing painfully.

_God in heaven, how can you let this happen? _

My entire frame was shaking uncontrollably, and I thought for a moment I could feel tears running down my face as I lifted my head to the ceiling.

_Please—let me save them. I don't know how, but I beg you—just give me the power to save them!_

"Dr….Cullen?" The hesitant urgency in the feminine voice sounded almost like God's answer—ambiguous, as always. I hadn't heard anyone approach. I took out my pocketwatch. Perhaps I had lost track of the time and a nurse was sent to retrieve me. It was only 4:30, and I didn't recognize the voice as belonging to any of the nurses.

Careful to move at human speed, I stood and composed myself, turning to face the visitor. It was the woman from the hallway. _Mrs. Masen_, I corrected myself. Her green eyes—the same as her son's—were still red and puffy, her tear-stained face now almost angelic in the glow of the small lamp in the room.

"Yes, I am Dr. Cullen. What can I do for you?"

"My name is Elizabeth Masen. You were the first to see my husband, Edward. He was in here for several days, but just recently—" She began to break down, lowering her eyes almost in shame. I fought the urge, once more, to comfort her; she would notice how cold I was. From the door, her scent carried with it that of the disease, and her body heat seemed a bit higher than normal, attesting to her grief. Shaking her head and wiping her cheeks, she raised her eyes to me, this time desperation laced in her pleading gaze.

Clearing her throat, she spoke so quickly I doubt anyone without vampire hearing would have understood her, "My son fainted in the waiting room. At first I thought he was just exhausted from being up all night, but I can't seem to rouse him, and the other doctors are too busy to look at him—please, could you come? I've seen you with other patients, you're very skilled—"

Before the final words were out of her mouth, I was out in the waiting room, my eyes both seeking and finding, in the same instant, the boy from before.

Rushing over to him, I could tell that he was running a dangerously high fever, and his skin had the tell-tale blue pallor. He was barely conscious, moaning softly. "Mrs. Masen, I need to get your son to a bed immediately. He is very ill."

I listened to the staff's conversations down the hall, hoping there was an available room. Thankfully, one had just been entirely vacated. Feigning some degree of difficulty, I picked the boy up and began walking to the room. Mrs. Masen followed closely, the grief carefully hidden on her face by her motherly duty; despite her efforts, she looked as if she were about to be sick.

"Tell me about your son, Mrs. Masen."

"Please, call me Elizabeth, Dr. Cullen. His name is Edward, like his father. He turned 17 this past June." Her resolve collapsed at the mention of his age, and she began sobbing once more. He was no doubt healthy and strong, just like every other victim. We reached the room and I laid him one of the two cots, calling a nurse to bring me water and supplies.

"Has he shown any symptoms of the influenza in the past few days, Elizabeth?" My automatic diagnostic nature had taken over.

She took deep, gasping breaths to calm herself, coughing a few times, "Not that I noticed," she said, wiping the tears from her eyes, "but he always was one to never admit to any sort of weakness. He once walked to school and back in the dead of winter with a head cold, and I never knew it until the next day. He said he didn't want me to worry." A few more tears fell as she attempted to make Edward comfortable on the makeshift bed while I took his pulse. His agonized groans continued as the nurse returned with the routine supplies.

I dipped a cloth in the basin of cold water, wringing it out and handing it to Elizabeth. She laid it on his forehead without further instruction. Slowly, he began to mumble incoherently, and Elizabeth looked at me hopefully.

"Edward?" the name came from her mouth as only a mother could speak it. She sat next to him on the bed, stroking his hair softly. His eyes opened slowly, the question evident on his face before he could voice it.

"You're very ill, Edward," I stated. I kept my voice low, crooning and yet authoritative. It made people feel safe and at ease when I spoke in such a way, knowing their problems were in my capable hands—useless hands, now. "You fainted in the waiting room. How are you feeling?" I asked him, regardless of knowing exactly what he was feeling at the moment, having seen it in countless others before.

He looked between Elizabeth and me for a moment, as if deciding whom he ought to appease first. His mother won, "I am only a bit…tired. I'm sure I'll be just fine as soon as I rest for a while." He sat up sluggishly, giving his mother what he probably thought was a reassuring look, before erupting into a coughing fit. Elizabeth immediately began rubbing his back before gently guiding him to lie down once more. He didn't argue.

His fever was steadily rising, and the altered smell of his blood grew more pungent by the minute, evidence to the disease gaining ground within him. Elizabeth was looking frantically around the room. "There's a pitcher of water and a glass right next to you," I suggested, pointing offhandedly to the table beside the bed as I continued filling out his chart. As he sat up to drink, Elizabeth propped the pillow behind him. She refilled his glass, then quickly left to retrieve more water.

"Between the two of us," I began once she was out of earshot, "how are you feeling?"

His eyes stayed trained on the glass in his hand as he sought to control his breathing, "Not well. I have the same illness that killed my father, don't I? The Influenza?" His resignation was staggering. It was as if he had given up hope. "I won't make it, either…will I?" He looked up then, his eyes searching mine, clear and mature beyond his years. For a moment we were equals.

He began coughing again. His eyes had reminded me of his mother's. Undoubtedly, if he gave up now, she would lose him too. How could Elizabeth cope with the loss of her husband and her son? It would kill her. _Why would it matter—you've lost so many already._

No. It did matter; _she_ mattered. I broke my rule. I had grown attached.

I now knew without a doubt that I needed to save this young man. If not for his, then for my own salvation. If his hope died, so would mine. I waited for his coughing to calm. "You must be strong and get well for her. She needs you."

Then a crash resounded directly behind us at the door, claiming both our attentions. A pitcher was shattered on the floor, water spattered everywhere. But more importantly, Elizabeth lay amongst the pieces, completely unconscious.


	2. Save Him

_I own neither Twilight, nor Carlisle. But, Stephenie, if you're reading this: could we please change the latter fact?_

_My unending gratitude goes, once again, to my amazing beta locqua. You're tremendous.  
In case you have yet to read her stories, go check them out; she's under my favorite authors._

_Merry Christmas to all!  
_

* * *

Faster than the human eye could follow, I was kneeling on the floor next to Elizabeth's motionless form. Her heartbeat was erratic and far too fast, her body trembling from fever, and her breathing so shallow and weak that a human doctor might think she was not breathing at all.

She had fallen amongst the shattered pitcher, and a shard had sliced her forehead open, directly above her right eye. Blood was trickling from the wound, its rich scent bringing a small degree of banal lightheadedness, which I reflexively pushed to the back of my mind, focusing instead on the task at hand.

_God help us—this woman was worse off than her son._

This thought brought Edward to my attention—he was currently attempting to struggle out of his bed in a sheer panic. "Mother!"

"No, Edward," I told him, my voice stern as I quickly swept the sharp pieces of glass into a pile with my hand, away from Elizabeth. "Stay where you are; you are far too ill, and there is broken glass everywhere. I'll take care of her." Where were the nurses? Had no one else heard the noise?

Ignoring my order, he crossed the room toward us, dizzy, his gait unsteady. I gently rolled Elizabeth into my arms, cradling her gently as I stood to carry her to the bed. Edward was immediately beside me as I stood. I was careful to move at a human's pace, even as my concern gripped my own patience like a vice. His mouth hung open slightly, tears falling shamelessly from his eyes as he lifted her dangling arm to place it across her nearly lifeless chest.

"Edward, lie down," I commanded, giving him a severe look. As I laid Elizabeth on the cot, he hesitated a brief moment before once more taking a cautious, yet determined step toward his mother. I turned and faced him, pleading with my gaze, willing him to understand. _There is nothing he can do for her now…I will do everything I can, but I fear it is too late. How in the world can I tell him? _He looked into my eyes with deep focus and anxiety, desperately searching for some small hope that his mother would be all right. He didn't find what he was looking for. In despair, he crumpled on the bed seconds before a coughing fit began anew.

Listening closely to make sure his breathing calmed, I turned once more to Elizabeth, taking a cloth from the cart beside Edward's bed and holding it to the cut above her eye. I could feel Edward's attention focused on my actions, and I stole a quick glance at him. He looked like I felt: scared, worried, angry.

Yes, angry. He was right to be angry about this whole situation, at this damned influenza—even at me. Heaven knows I was angry with myself. _Why hadn't I caught this before? _I had failed him, failed Elizabeth, and failed myself. Unless there was a miracle, she was most likely going to die; and without either of his parents, Edward would give up entirely and follow soon after. I couldn't let that happen. I was going to save her—save them both.

Finally, a breathless nurse came charging into the room, quickly leaving in the same manner after I briefly explained what happened and requested more supplies. It would be a bit of a wait—we were running low on resources, thanks to the massive influx of patients in the last few days, and she would have to look in several different places. Meanwhile, I placed a cool cloth on the back of Elizabeth's neck and her forehead, lifting the makeshift bandage to examine the wound for signs of clotting before turning once more to check on Edward.

He lay on his back, his eyes unfocused and clearly looking somewhere outside the roomHis eyes were unfocused. Tears still fell from his eyes, this time, perhaps, aided by his fever. I could hear his heartbeat, fast and strong, increasing slightly when he became aware of my scrutiny. His breathing was shallower than it was before, but harsh, and his forehead was wrinkled with the intensity of his concentration.

"How did you get to her so quickly, Dr. Cullen?"

I hadn't meant to move so fast; it was an instinctual reaction. However, this would be all too easy to explain.

"You have an extremely high fever, Edward, accompanied no doubt by dizziness and altered vision. Am I correct?" He nodded slightly, closing his eyes in verification of my diagnosis. I chuckled lightly, hoping the response had the appropriate amount of friendliness behind it, opposing the intense grief I felt at the moment. "Considering the speed and stability with which you walked over to us earlier, I think everything is happening just a bit too fast for your eyes' ability to follow."

The nurse returned, then, with another cart of supplies for Elizabeth. She had been able to find a bottle of aspirin, and I gave a dose to Edward before turning to his ailing mother. Edward watched attentively without a word, forcing his eyes to stay open despite his enormous fatigue as I took her temperature and properly bandaged the cut on her forehead. As I finished, his breathing slowed further as he drifted into an uncomfortable sleep, groaning occasionally.

I sighed. Elizabeth had not yet regained consciousness. I could hear fluid filling her lungs with each breath—indicative of early pneumonia. By my estimation, she must have been ill for at least an entire day. The influenza had already ravaged her body, her muscles no doubt aching and atrophying as minute tremors wracked her frame. How strong must one be to suffer something like this in silence? Not only had she fallen ill herself, but she just lost her husband, and undoubtedly knew she would probably lose her son, as well. She deserved the highest place in heaven for her bravery and self-sacrifice. _Such a waste._

After checking to make sure Edward was still asleep, I reached out and placed my hand on her face. Her skin was scalding hot, making me withdraw for a moment, terrified of waking her. She didn't stir, so I began to run my hand along the side of her face, hoping to quell the rampaging fire that was increasing her already unrestrained temperature. Many of the patients who had recovered were the ones whose fevers we were able to control—but aspirin could only do so much in these cases. Elizabeth began shivering, so I quickly withdrew once more, only to feel immediately compelled to touch her again. I reached my hand toward her bronze hair, which now fell in tangled locks around her head like a tragic halo, wisps matting lightly about her damp face.

_Don't—you'll only make it worse for yourself._

I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose to bring myself back to reality. Then I stood and quickly left to continue my rounds. The morgue was packed, and we opened the windows to alleviate the reek of the dead bodies that permeated the halls. It took me far longer than anticipated, as I had to stop between patients to scrub my arms with iodine and alcohol, removing the blood and mucous that had transferred in my examinations.

Finally, I arrived back at Elizabeth and Edward's room. Elizabeth was awake and sitting on her son's bed, running a cold, wet cloth over his fevered brow.

"Mrs. Masen," I started with unease, "you must—" Edward let out a whimper then, and she cut me off with a look of sheer determination in her emerald eyes.

When she spoke, I half expected her voice to be hoarse, but there was no tremor in her tone to betray her weakened state. "Dr. Cullen, in the same week I have lost my parents and my husband to this illness. I will not allow it to claim my son." She looked out the window, then, tears softening her intense glare. I followed her gaze, noting the sky lightening on the horizon.

It was nearly dawn, and I needed to leave soon. I listened and heard the low commotion as the daytime staff and doctors made ready to take over—why had I not heard them sooner?

I sighed in frustration, and Elizabeth's eyes met mine once more. "Mrs. Masen, my shift is over and I must go. I can see there is nothing I can do to discourage you in your efforts, but please promise me that you will rest and follow the other doctors' orders." I could not hide my profound agony from her; I felt it written across my face, reflected in her own expression. _How had this attachment happened so quickly?_

Gratitude relieved her features, the grief in her eyes disappearing momentarily. "Thank you, Dr. Cullen. I will do what they ask, but I cannot leave my son to suffer alone. He loved his father more than anything in the world; the healing he now needs is more than medicine can offer. He needs me."

I nodded, glancing angrily at the growing light outside. The loss of my own father came to the forefront of my mind, and I immediately understood the connection Edward and I had shared in the hall earlier that morning. We shared a kindred grief. Was he was one of the reasons for the attachment I had so quickly formed to Elizabeth?

She began to cough, covering her mouth with her hand as I crossed over to pour a glass of water for her. She was still shaking when her breathing quieted, her hand coming away from her mouth to reach for the glass. Elizabeth hesitated briefly before taking it, and I registered the shock on her face a moment before realizing why it was there.

Her hand was spattered with a dark red, nearly black, substance.

Blood. My dread grew.

The unforgiving light suddenly intensified outside, and my anxiety grabbed me by the throat. _You have to leave—now!_ I would have to run, as it was, to escape the pursuing rays of morning. I quickly handed Elizabeth a towel and set the glass next to her with a few tablets of aspirin. There was nothing more I could do; it was in the hands of the day shift, now.

I walked to the door and turned once more, watching as Elizabeth's world shrank to the small bed on which her son lay ill. It might be the last time I saw her. With a whisper, I left the room, "_Just hold on_."

* * *

The longest twelve hours of my long life ticked by in seconds. My mind replayed the previous mornings' events with perfect clarity: the agony in the waiting room, Elizabeth's face as her son lay unconscious, Edward's—no—Elizabeth's eyes I left the room. Or perhaps they were Edward's eyes. The accuracy of my memory was suddenly hazy, the pair almost becoming a single entity.

I sat at my desk after my brief journey home, having left nearly too late from the hospital—the sun had begun to peak over the horizon, painting the treetops a brilliant gold. I stayed within the shadows of the buildings until I reached the woods on the outskirts of town, then ran with inhuman speed through the trees to the sanctuary of my home.

_Sanctuary,_ I thought bitterly. It was a sanctuary no longer—I was a prisoner of my own tortured thoughts.

I carefully moved the curtain aside from the window, looking outside at the sun sinking below the horizon. It would be another half-hour until I could return to the hospital. I had always enjoyed being a doctor, even when the limitations of human medicine were maddening, but never before had I been this…anxious to go to work.

I had found my proper calling, to be sure; medicine offered me the chance to pay penance for the unnatural life I had—for the sins of my brothers, if not entirely for my own. Perhaps vampires had been created by God to serve as stewards of his fallen creatures, but somewhere along the way we, too, fell from grace, giving into our own selfish natures. Had we always been so wicked; predators of these delicate beings I so desperately sought approximate?

What was wrong with me? Humans were far to ephemeral for me to even consider getting involved.

And yet I could not remove Elizabeth from my mind. Something about her drew me in—what could it be? Was it the fact that she expressly sought me out for help when Edward collapsed? Or something else entirely?

I sat in silence, the ticking seconds of the clock deafening to my enhanced hearing. I got up, slipping on my hat and coat, and paced in front of the door like a caged lion, my eyes never leaving the window as the sun set inch by inch.

When it finally disappeared below the horizon, I was out the door in half a second. I took the shortcut through the woods again, running as fast as I possibly could until I reached the edge of the forest, where the trees gave way to the road. Then, I walked as quickly as a human pace would allow, reaching the hospital in record time as I flew up the steps and through the front doors without a thought.

I was met with surprised looks upon entering the room, but I paused only to hang up my coat and hat, smiling warmly at the nurses in greeting before grabbing the paperwork for my rounds. I had to act normal, though I was desperately eager to see Elizabeth and her son again.

_God, if you have any mercy left in you, let them still be alive,_ I prayed unceasingly as I walked swiftly to their room at the end of the hall. I listened for their heartbeats as I approached the door, noting with great relief that there were indeed still two; but one was far too faint.

I was about to enter when one of the nurses from the day shift caught up to me. She said something about wanting to deliver the doctor's day report for my rounds personally. Handing me a small stack of papers, she began a flirtatious banter—completely inappropriate for the current epidemiological crisis. But I barely registered her words as I flipped to the Masens' chart, reading the report with vampire-speed.

Elizabeth had been at her son's bed all day, only resting when she could no longer stay upright.

But it was the second page that caught my attention: pneumonia had set in for her, and Edward's lungs were now hemorrhaging as well. The doctor had given a negative prognosis, and was hoping to ease them both into a peaceful expiration.

I froze while reading the second page, my grief crippling me. I could smell the blood and other secretions from where I was, and I was afraid of what I would see upon opening the door.

The nurse cleared her throat, obviously frustrated at my lack of attention to her monologue. I flashed her my most charming smile, thanking her for her efforts, and turned to enter the Masens' room as the nurse still stood, completely stunned, in the hall.

I felt dizzy once inside. The room was dimly lit by a single lamp between the two beds, only feet apart, but I could see them both with perfect precision, as if it were broad daylight. Edward was curled up tightly beneath the blankets, his huddled body vibrating with pain and fever, and his lungs struggling to bring air in. Blood, dried and fresh, covered his pillow and blankets, tinged with yellow purulence—evidence of grave infection.

Elizabeth looked much the same, but her pulse was weak, and her chest did not indicate any sign of breathing. My eyes caught a glimpse of the necklace hanging around her neck as the gold caught the moonlight. I hadn't noticed it before. It must be her husband's wedding ring; but next to it, on the same chain, was hers. _Why wasn't she wearing it anymore?_

Edward was mumbling incoherently, clearly in a state of delirium, as I took a chair from the corner over to his bedside, sitting down on it and placing my hand on his head in comfort.

His eyes snapped open, "_Father!_" He shot upwards, clutching my shirt and gasping for air. His eyes held a kind of recognition, while the glassiness indicated that the fever was altering his mind.

"No, Edward, it's Dr. Cullen," I whispered softly. His face fell before he gripped his chest and fell backwards, rolling over on his side and coughing as blood and pus flowed from his mouth and nose with the rhythm of his heaves.

I rubbed his back soothingly until he stilled, grabbing the glass of water from his table and placing it to his lips. As the water slowly trickled into his mouth, I noticed something odd: the glass was shaking.

_My arm was shaking_. No, it wasn't just my arm, it was my entire upper body. And I wasn't shaking—I was sobbing.

I leaned over Edward's unconscious form, one hand over my mouth to keep myself silent as I cried my noiseless grief for the young man and his mother. These two humans, who had managed to capture my heart in a little under twenty-four hours' time, were going to leave me forever._ God, why couldn't you just let me save _them_?_

The battle was lost.

A low sound came from me then, escaping before I could stop it. _Did you just growl?_ Good God, when was the last time I had actually allowed myself to growl at something? Were it not for the situation, I may have laughed at myself. Here I was, the mighty vampire, growling at death and completely helpless to stop it. The bitter irony cut through any humor I may have found to dispel my rising anguish. The hushed sobs began again.

My silent grieving was interrupted by the feeling of a warm—no, _hot_—hand on my back. I whipped around, faster than I should have allowed myself, to see Elizabeth's eyes wide open, staring at me as if she were seeing a ghost.

"I have two things I must ask of you, Dr. Cullen," she began, her voice barely audible. "First, please…my necklace." It took me a moment to understand that she wished me to remove it. I reached behind her neck, feeling for the clasp, releasing it swiftly. I brought the chain forward momentarily, the two gold bands gently embracing, before placing it in her hand. But she immediately returned it to mine, and I allowed her weak hands to close my fingers around it.

She was barely able to speak now, and a small, solitary tear escaped her eye. "My Edward will want them someday—see that he gets them, please_._" She said her final plea with such desperation that my throat was suddenly choked with emotion, the air trapped in my lungs. All I could do was nod my assurance.

Her mouth opened, forming words, but the sounds caught in her throat as she erupted into a coughing fit. Blood bubbled from between her lips and ran down her jaw and neck, pooling in her hair.

Placing the rings on the table beside her, I held her hand and stroked her hair, whispering whatever words of comfort I could. Grabbing a glass of water, I mimicked my earlier actions to Edward. After I set down the glass, I watched her suck in a painful breath before her eyes opened into an intense glare.

"Save him!" she pleaded, her voice hoarse, but commanding.

Her tone cut me to my very soul. I took her other hand, now holding them both securely within mine, and looked deep into her emerald eyes, the redness around them mingling with her impassioned demand, setting them ablaze. "I'll do everything in my power," I promised. She brought one of my hands to her face, smiling in gratitude, and I wondered if she suspected its icy feel to be something more than a contrast to her fevered body.

"You must," she insisted, gripping my hand so hard that I could actually feel it, my hand on her face now covered by her own. It gave me hope—maybe she had the strength to pull through after all. "You must do everything in _your_ power." When she looked at me then, I almost caught a double-meaning in her words. "What others cannot do, that is what you must do for my Edward."Her penetrating gaze remained even as I averted mine.

My stone-heart dropped to my feet in horror, my eyes following its path. Had she somehow figured it out? Had I somehow given myself away? _No. She couldn't possibly—_

"Edward!" she exclaimed, her voice garbled by the fluid that continued to block her lungs, her eyes now on the ceiling. I glanced quickly over toward the boy's cot. He was stirring, and I worried that he would wake.

"Edward, my dear husband, my love!" Her hand left mine on her face, now reaching toward the ceiling. She was delirious, evidently seeing her recently departed husband. Her eyes closed, and her breathing became impossibly labored as she took in a breath. Elizabeth slowly sighed, almost in resignation, each word fainter than the last.

"Yes, my darling, I will come."


	3. Choices

_I own neither Twilight, nor Carlisle. I am, however, forever indebted to Stephenie Meyer for creating them both!  
_

_To locqua, the most patient beta and amazing Twi-hard, this chapter is all thanks to you. "You complete me."  
_

_

* * *

_

As Elizabeth slipped into a comatose state, it became apparent that her fever was out of control—from the feel of it, about one hundred and seven. She had finally succumbed, and I could not pull her back. Edward was no better off, his breathing painful and difficult, his temperature nearly as high as his mother's. I gave him a light dose of morphine for the pain, and left to continue my rounds before my sorrow could overtake me.

By the time I returned, it had been nearly an hour, and Elizabeth had not regained consciousness; undoubtedly, she never would. Edward was now experiencing light seizures from his dangerously high fever, the drugs in his system dulling his body's spastic movement.

Suddenly, and with enormous clarity, the events of the past few nights flashed before my eyes, pieces of the puzzle coming together at an alarming rate. I became a statue, all human pretenses forgotten as my eyes widened in understanding. Scene after scene ran through my mind almost too quickly for me to follow; I watched as memories of the boy and his mother in the hospital these past few days replayed themselves, as if they were happening again, all in that moment.

The connection Edward and I exchanged in the hall—Elizabeth's search for help, leading ultimately to _me_—Edward's eyes as he mistook me for his father—Elizabeth's final plea.

It was as if the whole picture lay before me, God's ultimate answer to my infinite pleas these past two hundred years.

_But—_change _Edward?_

Elizabeth made a strangled sound, sucking in a painful breath, but I kept my eyes on my hands, which were currently clasped around her right hand, at her side. I couldn't bear to look at her face as I listened to her nearly non-existent pulse. How could she have known what I was capable of? _Elizabeth—is this really what you expect of me?_

Her heart beat strongly one last time, and was silent.

It sounded like her answer. It sounded like _yes_.

I glanced over at Edward, smelling his blood become cleaner as the previous dose of morphine began to wear off. His movements were increasing again, his lungs beginning to heave in an attempt to clear themselves of fluids.

"_You must_," Elizabeth's voice called softly from my memory. I looked at her then. Her face was not yet peaceful, as others' were in death; rather, her expression echoed the desperation of her demand, and I was compelled to answer her.

_I will._

Edward would regain consciousness soon, so I would have to act fast. Pulling two death certificates from the dwindling pile beneath the reports, I filled them out for Elizabeth and Edward. Stepping swiftly into the hall, I found an unoccupied gurney and brought it to the Masens' room.

I picked Elizabeth up gently and held her for a moment, savoring the feeling of her in my arms once last time. Her face now held an expression of mild relief, though I could have been imagining it.

_I will,_ I wordlessly promised once more, pressing my lips to her ashen forehead.

Edward's moan ushered my focus back with haste. If I was going to do this, I would have to be quick—he didn't have much time left. I placed Elizabeth on the gurney, and wheeled her to the morgue. I would have to bring Edward there as well to avoid suspicion; the morgue was empty of the living, anyway, so my job would be all too easy.

Taking the gurney with me to Edward's room, I gave him a strong dose of morphine, then waited five minutes for it to begin working. He was motionless, and barely breathing; no one would suspect a thing. I hid my anxiety and pushed the cart down the corridor, the nurses and doctors along the way pausing to pay their respects. Once in the morgue, I lifted him out of the gurney and laid him next to his mother before leaving swiftly for the front desk. I needed to escape the hospital—bringing Edward with me—but how could I avoid suspicion?

I stopped at the desk, delivering the death certificates from the rounds so far. Elizabeth hadn't been the only one. Dr. Wagner arrived at that moment, and the perfect excuse came to mind instantly. I seized the opportunity, sobering my expression and trying to make my voice sound as weak as possible.

"Dr. Wagner, I need to ask a great favor of you—you see, I'm feeling rather poorly, and I was wondering if you might be able to finish my rounds for me. I think, perhaps, I need to rest." I gave him a feeble smile, only turning my mouth up at the corners.

His face darkened, registering a familiar fear, and he all but snatched the reports from my hands, walking away briskly. The nurse gave me a sympathetic smile as I took my coat and hat, turning to leave through the back door, which took me right past the morgue.

I listened to the ambient sounds as I walked with increasing speed, praying that nobody would have necessity to visit this end of the hall in the next thirty seconds. Reaching the door to the morgue and hearing no one, I rushed in and picked Edward up in my arms. I paused once more to listen, to ensure our privacy. A nurse was shuffling papers at the opposite end of the hall, her shoes clacking against the creaking floorboards as she walked toward the stairs. I shifted my weight impatiently, noticing Edward's heart skip a few beats. He seized again, strongly enough that he would have fallen from a human's arms. I had to hurry—he didn't have much time left.

After what felt like hours, even to a vampire, I heard the nurse ascending the stairs. I bolted into the hall and out the back door before anyone else could come. I ran quickly, leaping onto a nearby building and racing across the rooftops in a direct route to the edge town. It was faster than navigating the streets of the city, and I was able to avoid being seen altogether.

I leapt down from a building near the edge of the woods, being careful not to jar Edward, and increased my speed. I easily dodged the trees and branches, my gait unfaltering though I was hunched protectively over the limp body in my arms. I was almost home.

_We_ were almost home.

* * *

I laid Edward on my bed—a useless prop until this very moment—and ran quickly around my house gathering supplies: a pail of water and cloth, some gauze from my medical bag, an empty basin. What, exactly, did one need when changing someone into a vampire? I placed the provisions on the table and retrieved a chair from my study, sitting next to him.

Edward reeked of disease; his mouth and chin crusted with gore, and sweat beading his forehead, despite our cold journey here. And yet, there was still something in his face; something angelically pure in his countenance. It was almost beatific. It was just how I had imagined my son would look, if I had ever had one. Suddenly, I didn't know if I could do this.

"_Save him!"_ Elizabeth's phantom voice resonated through my doubt.

But I had no idea _how_ to do it. Of course, I understood the process from a purely subjective standpoint, but I had never seen the transformation occur firsthand. Was a certain dosage of venom required to initiate the transformation? Would it kill him instead, if the amount was too little? Or would someone merely bitten, not drained, consequentially transform?

Perhaps it was only chance that I had not died as a result of my own attack.

Why had I never thought to study the physiological effects of venom? On that note, what could I use as a test subject? Surely not a human, but any other species could be ruled out as an incomparable variable.

Edward seized again, his body's reaction weaker this time. Holding his upper body still with one arm, I slid my other hand underneath his neck to cup it, feeling his carotid arteries constrict upon the cold contact, decreasing the blood flow to his brain. He fell motionless again, his heart beating dangerously fast.

I had been sitting idly, considering options for research, when I needed to execute the procedure immediately. I felt like a first-year medical student again, the affective memory of my first surgical observation suddenly fresh in my mind. Only this time, the scalpel was in my hand, and I had no idea how or where to make the first incision.

I wracked my brain, replaying my own experience with as much clarity as the faded recollection could produce. The vampire's eyes were wide and pitch black as he turned to me, pouncing like a jaguar and sinking his teeth into my neck in one graceful movement. I brought my hand up, feeling the scar now hidden beneath my collar. I winced as I once more recalled his bite slicing through my flesh. Though the pain was a dim remembrance, it caused my body to tense, involuntarily and defensively.

Then came the finale of the scene. The vampire sank all of his teeth even deeper into my neck, pulling back and ripping out a mouthful of flesh, muscle, and tendon. He spat the mass to the ground and returned in a fraction of a second, greedily licking the blood from the edges before it could stream to the ground. He plunged back into the wound, then, sucking the blood from my body with terrifying speed. I felt the ghost sensation of the venom pulsing into my bloodstream, the icy fire charging like a violent stampede through every fiber of my being.

_Could I do_ that_ to Edward?_

No, that was the wrong question—_is this what _Edward _would want_?

It was selfish of me, to be sure, to send him through three days of hell to clear my conscience of an ambiguous promise to Elizabeth—so that I would never again be lonely. I would have the companionship I so desperately sought, but at what cost to him?

I wished to God he were coherent enough for me to ask what he would choose. What if he hated me for my decision in the end, rejected me for being his creator, and instead wished for death as I had in the beginning? But, whereas I had no one, he would have me: a guide, a friend, a father.

_Father?_ I could not dare let myself hope that he would ever think of me in such regard. My dream of having a wife and children died with my humanity, and I would never again be allowed that prospect. Although Edward was mature for his age, he was _only_ seventeen, a young man still much in need of a father.

"_He loved his father more than anything in the world; the healing he now needs is more than medicine can offer. He needs me." _

No, he would never be able to think of me as his father. As an immortal, Edward would have my unconditional love and guidance; in death, he would be reunited with his parents, never again to experience pain or sorrow. What had I to offer to rival such a reward? I should just let him die.

"_Save him!" _Elizabeth's words snapped at me this time, the softness of her tone replaced by a desperate gravity.

I gritted my teeth, the venom pooling in my mouth as I fully understood the task ahead of me. There was no other option.

I would have to bite him.

I couldn't take any chances; I needed to recreate the injury I had received in order to lessen the likelihood of accidentally killing him. I wished for a more certain, and less painful, way. Perhaps if I were more gentle, more aware, I could avoid some of the major nerves running through the neck.

Would I be able to do this without my instincts taking over? I had spent the past two hundred years building up a resistance to human blood. I was all but immune to the scent, now, but what about the taste? Would I be able to stop?

"_What others cannot do, that is what you must do for my Edward."_

This was my answer, my blessed assurance. I scooted the chair closer to the bed, then tilted Edward's head up and away from me, exposing the length of his neck.

_God, grant me restraint._

And with that, I lunged at him, my teeth slicing easily through the muscle. Edward's eyes shot open and he threw his head backwards into the pillow, exposing his neck even further. A scream finally formed and tore from his mouth, delayed at first from shock. I bit down quickly, then, ripping the flesh away and coughing it to the floor beside the bed before immediately biting down again, feeling the venom seeping into the wound. Edward continued screaming, but the sound was far away and muffled, as if I was underwater.

_The taste!_ It was better than I had remembered, and it gave me a heady feeling. My lips encircled the wound, my tongue depressing as much as it could to control some of the bleeding. I felt like I did at the beginning of a hunt, my senses heightened a hundredfold, my reasoning extinguished like a flame to the ebb and flow of instinct.

Rational thought was quickly slipping from my grasp. Uncontrollably, I began sucking, pulling the blood from the wound and swallowing, moaning in pleasure as Edward continued to writhe and shriek. Suddenly, I couldn't remember why I was doing this, and I didn't know if I could stop.

"You must!"

I froze, even as Edward's thrashing increased. A woman was standing on the other side of the bed. Her blood held an almost soothing, lavender scent, which brought back a measure of my coherent thought. Had I been so distracted as to not notice someone approach my home? Good God, I would have to kill her too, now that she had witnessed this.

I lifted my eyes, my teeth remaining deep in Edward's neck, my mouth full of his blood and my tongue once more compressing the wound. She had soft, reddish-brown hair, and her green eyes looked down at me with anger and another emotion I could not understand.

"You must," the woman repeated, nearly a whisper this time. Her eyes began to soften, slowly.

I wanted to answer her, but my mouth was preoccupied. I blinked a few times, my eyes closing as her scent enveloped me again. It was so familiar, yet I couldn't remember anything but the young man underneath me.

Edward cried for help, his movements weaker, now, from the blood loss. The sound brought the dizziness back, my venom flowing with renewed vigor. I was slipping again, and my tongue began to release its clamp on the wound.

"You must do everything in _your_ power." She was smiling this time. I looked up into her eyes once more, and I froze, my brain snapping from its drunken stupor instantaneously.

_Elizabeth?_ My mind could not grasp the concept. I was clearly hallucinating; the delusion must have been brought on by the sudden intake of human blood, a substance I had deprived myself of for the past two hundred years. Its effect was like a narcotic—

_A narcotic you are currently ingesting in a large quantity!_

But, no; though my teeth were still lodged deep in Edward's neck, blood was no longer pouring into my mouth. I pulled away and Edward cried out sharply. I looked at the wound—now completely healed, save for two crescent-shapes where my teeth had exited. Blood began to seep from the holes, and before I could stop myself, I dropped my head again and licked it away.

I jumped back in horror, realizing what I had almost done, knocking over my chair in the process. I was thoroughly disgusted with myself, remembering how uncensored and uncontrolled my actions had been. _I could have killed him._

I quickly reached over to the table beside the bed and grabbed a roll of gauze; but as I brought it to his neck, I found that the wound had already been sealed.

I stared at him, almost unable to believe that there had been a severe laceration there only moments before. The venom must have healed it in some way. _But how?_ I replayed the event quickly, finding the answer in that moment of odd recognition. The woman had distracted me. _Elizabeth _had distracted me_._

I snapped my head up, frantically looking around the room for any sign of her. She was nowhere to be found. Had I really imagined everything—the tone of her voice, the trust in her eyes, even her scent?

Edward was screaming at the top of his lungs now, his body convulsing with surprising strength as the venom spread. I pinned his body down as his thrashing nearly sent him off the bed.

_God in heaven, what had I done?_


	4. Inheritance

_I do not own Twilight or Carlisle. All hail Stephenie Meyer._

_I apologize for the late update--I had a busy schedule and Jury Duty all this week. Hopefully its length makes up for the wait.  
_

_Unending gratitude goes to my beta, locqua. Send her endless amounts of fan mail, for without her, this chapter wouldn't be here. Seriously. Thank you, locqua!_

_Now, without further ado or eloquence, on with the tale..._

_

* * *

_

Edward's screams had continued for over six hours, only ending when his voice could no longer handle the stress. Had I not been five miles from the nearest house, someone would have undoubtedly been there within minutes. Yet even as his voice could no longer resonate, his agonized, whispered pleas for death were unimpeded. All I could do was hold his hand and stroke his hair, begging his forgiveness and promising that it would be but a memory, soon enough.

I could smell the venom pumping through Edward's bloodstream; ironically, it had already obliterated the virus that had been threatening his life. His body writhed almost uncontrollably, his immune system fighting valiantly, albeit in vain, against the unfamiliar toxin. I could sense the changes beginning to take place in his musculature and skeleton, the cells and muscle fibers being destroyed and restructured at an alarming rate.

There was nothing I could do to ease Edward's suffering, yet I never left his side. Through the minutes and hours, I talked to him and prayed over him, telling him everything, starting with who—and _what—_I was. I began with the story of how it all happened: how his mother begged me to save him, in the way that only _I_ could; he would become a vampire, and would eternally thirst for human blood. But I would teach him to live as I did, drinking only the blood of animals and learning to deny his baser instincts, embracing what was left of his humanity. He would always have me to turn to, for whatever he needed.

I pulled my gaze away from him for the first time that day to the window, training my eyes on the woods beyond the mocking reflection in the glass panes. The fading light gave an ethereal glow to the scenery around my home, and for a brief moment, the silence seemed hallowed. I was not certain how much of my discourse Edward had heard, and I suddenly felt ashamed of my selfish actions, unable to look at him any longer. But then came a whisper I almost thought I had imagined.

"_No_," Edward managed to rasp out. He lapsed into complete silence, then, the last of his strength failing as the venom took control, leaving him paralyzed.

* * *

Twenty-four hours later, Edward's utterance was still haunting me. He seemed to have inherited his mother's ability to be maddeningly ambiguous. I had stared at him, deep in thought, for the entire day following, occasionally brought from the recesses of my mind to watch with fascination at the gradual amendment of his physiology. His body had succumbed to the will of the venom, the whole of his being still but for the steady thrum of his pulse and the occasional tremors that gave evidence to his silent torture. However, my thoughts were still with his last word.

_No, _he had said. _What could he possibly have meant?_

Perhaps it was Edward's general reaction to my detail of what his reality was going to be like as a vampire. Maybe I had been right—he hated me for having created him, and was rejecting my philosophy. Or was it just another desperate plea for me to end his life? Possibly, he was afraid that he would kill another human, and was resolved to fight his newfound instinct as I had. Whatever his decision, I would never turn my back on him; even if he hated me, though it would torture me for the rest of my existence—

_I would give everything I had to see him happy_.

This new realization shook me to the core, bringing with it a new significance to my earlier covenant to Elizabeth. Did my promise to her extend beyond Edward's mortal life? Would I find myself fighting to save him—_from himself_—in the days and decades to come, into eternity? If he did regret my decision, would I be failing in my word?

I closed my eyes, Elizabeth's pleading, disquieted form appearing in the darkness again. This renewed sense of purpose to her command demanded that I renew my vow.

_I _will_ do everything in my power, Elizabeth._

Her troubled demeanor melted in relief. The vision faded, and I knew I would not see her again. She was finally at peace.

It was so strange to feel such a deep connection to Edward. Perhaps it was the fact that I had bitten him, and his own scent carried with it a small bit of mine. It was in the same way a family of humans all had a unifying scent to them; the way Edward's scent hinted of Elizabeth's, the way a child was forever a part of his parents. I had always wondered if the scent went beyond mere physiology; humans could not, at least consciously, smell it as a vampire could, so its purpose was clearly not for them to be able to detect family ties. Subconscious bonding was always a possibility, but I could tell that this particular trait went beyond providing for survival.

A new insight emerged, instantly: it was from _love_—the sort of love that surpasses life itself; the self-sacrificing kind that could defy death to ensure the proper conclusion to its course. This love was the connection I had felt with Elizabeth and Edward initially—I had mistaken the manifest emotion for compassion. It was what had compelled Elizabeth to lay her own life on the line, nursing her son in his illness, and, consequently, to beg me to save him.

Inexplicably, the pull Edward had on me did not seem so chanced, but rather fated. The love I had for him was not entirely my own.

I suddenly felt the rings Elizabeth had given me in my pocket, feeling far heavier than their small size would indicate.

I had inherited part of this love.

It was almost as if, in giving me her rings, Elizabeth had entrusted me with her love for her son. And somehow, this love had evolved and grown, mingling with my own until the two halves became a single entity, boundless and endless.

I could see it clearly now. The dawn of the third day was fast approaching, and Edward began to voice his agony once more. It couldn't be much longer, now, and, from my recollection, this would be the hardest time for him. I remembered, dimly, the final hours before my heart beat its last—how all my senses seemed to have awoken for the first time, both breaking through the pain and allowing me to experience it to its fullest. With each of Edward's cries, I heard within them the echoed expression of my own long-forgotten agony.

If his transformation was similar to mine, he would likely be able to hear me, now. I explained everything again and promised the pain would end soon, but there was no way to ensure he had heard. His hand was still secure within mine, and I hoped and prayed for some slight twitch of a finger to indicate he had heard me.

Nothing.

The soft ticking of the clock in my study suddenly assaulted my ears, every second sounding like the strokes of a deadly scythe, each successive swing of the pendulum shortening Edward's tenuous grip on life as the hours passed. I wept tearlessly with him in those final hours, knowing that the pain had increased to an unbearable level. His heart beat furiously in its final stand against death, and Edward wrenched his hand from mine, clutching his shirt above his heart, ripping it in the process. I pried his hand from the shredded fabric, holding him still on the bed as he gasped and writhed.

And then, all was still.

Edward's hand tightened painfully around mine, and I placed my other hand on top of it, rubbing back and forth soothingly. His whole body tensed, and I quickly scanned the rest of his limbs. The pain should be fading quickly. _Was he still feeling the burn of the venom?_

"No." I was startled by the pleasant timbre with which he spoke the word. _What a voice!_ But my mind was confused by his statement—had I spoken my question aloud?

My focus shifted to his face, and I started. His eyes were open, and his expression was as surprised as my own. It looked like he was seeing a complete stranger.

"Edward," I began, looking deep into his crimson eyes, "do you remember me—Dr. Cullen?"

His eyes widened further; then, he was across the room in a blinding flash, trembling as he crouched defensively by the wall. I stood slowly, keeping my head and shoulders submissively down in a non-threatening posture. He was clearly afraid of me, and I needed to calm him down before he attacked.

Edward shook his head furiously. "No!"

He straightened a bit, then, but his trembling continued. I could feel my forehead furrow in a physical manifestation of my bewilderment, and I took a step toward him unconsciously. Reacting to my movement, he jumped back quickly, hitting the wall, which gave with a sharp _crack_. The sound surprised him, and he whipped around to face the perceived threat. Edward didn't know his newborn strength, and he was incredibly fast, even for a vampire. I was astounded.

His eyes darted around to take in his surroundings, and I realized, for the first time, that he must have assumed that he was still in the hospital. Edward turned to face me again, his expression mirroring mine—a mixture of confusion and complete amazement. But instead of conveying a wondering tone, his voice snapped at me.

"How are you doing that?"

I froze instantly. _What had I been doing?_ I did a quick inventory of my actions, but as far as I could tell, Edward was the only one who was _doing_ anything.

"_That_," he seethed, pointing an accusing finger at me. "I can hear what you are saying, but your lips never move. Have you been speaking to me—like that—while I was…" He broke off, unable to continue.

Something in Edward's tone reminded me instantly of Aro; a very specific inflection that he would use when responding to something you had _thought—_

The pieces fell into place instantly, and I could feel the comprehension smooth my concerned expression. Though the phenomenon of inherent "giftedness" was frequent in vampires, it remained a complete mystery to the Volturi; it was thought to develop from the transformation process, though they had no idea why some, such as I, had no apparent ability at all. I had my theories, but had never been eyewitness to the birth of a newborn before. I thought without hope or agenda, watching carefully in complete fascination.

_You can hear me, Edward?_

He jumped back again, careful not to hit the wall this time, and his trembling started with renewed fervor. I was acutely aware of the rings again, and I felt Elizabeth's love—or, perhaps, mine—cry out at his distress. I realized I had not yet told him about his mother, and my regret that I could not save her reprised itself.

Edward's gaze moved slowly to his parents' rings, still concealed in my right pocket. _I hadn't intended for him to find out this way._ Grief tore through his expression before he shut his eyes quickly, attempting to rein in the emotion. He nodded slowly before falling to his knees, the force splintering the floorboards. I really _would_ need to explain his new strength to him.

"No, apparently you won't," Edward choked out bitterly. It was then that I realized—he wasn't trembling—he was crying. His right hand was fisted at his mouth, his left clutching where his heart had, until recently, been beating so strongly. Edward sobbed as he sucked in a breath, his shoulders hunched over, head tucked tightly against his chest.

There were so many questions I wanted to ask him, but the nagging curiosity was smothered by an overwhelming need to comfort the young man. I moved slowly, one foot at a time, thinking clearly about each movement—if Edward could hear my thoughts, then my actions would not come as a surprise. When I was finally by his side, I knelt beside him, placing one hand on his shoulder.

Edward's head snapped up, his crimson eyes now level with mine. His expression held so many emotions that it was unreadable, and I thought, for a brief moment, that he might want to kill me. This existence had been forced upon him, and I could not blame him if he sought to avenge the unjust act. If that was what would make him happy, I would have gladly given him my life.

Suddenly, Edward's body tensed, and he launched himself at me. He threw his arms underneath mine, wrapping them tightly around me. His head collided hard with my chest, the momentum throwing us across the floor, my back hitting the bed frame and breaking it.

Despite the violent strength behind the action, I intuitively knew that this was no assault.

Instinctively, I wrapped my arms around Edward, his body convulsing uncontrollably as he tearlessly wept—for the loss of his parents, his world, his opportunities, and his life.

_I'll be here for you, Edward. You'll never want for anything if I can help it. _His arms tightened around me, and I impulsively tensed from the pain. Instantly, his grip loosened.

"I'm sorry," he stuttered, trying desperately, though unsuccessfully, to compose himself. He continued to embrace me, though more gently than before, allowing the powerful sobs that wracked his body to run their full course. His weeping gradually slowed, then faltered, before finally retreating altogether. My mind was quieted, unable to form thoughts in reverence of the moment. After several minutes, he spoke again, his voice still clear and strong. "I'm sorry, Dr. Cullen."

"I think, under the circumstances, you can call me Carlisle, Edward," I said as he slowly sat up, moving to sit beside me once his composure had returned. We both gazed out the window into the darkened forest in silence. I heard the clock chime the ninth hour—_had two hours really passed since his awakening?_

"Carlisle," he began, struggling to voice the words as I looked over at him. Without turning his head, his black eyes nervously scanned the room before finding mine, and I immediately knew what he was struggling to ask. The burn in his throat must be next to intolerable.

_Ah, you are thirsty._ It wasn't a question—Edward nodded his concurrence. I stood, silently instructing Edward to follow me out the back door.

He stayed close, running silently with me through the woods, listening to my thoughts as I replayed my own memories of my transformation and hunting experiences—a visual demonstration might help him know what to expect. Of course, my first kill had been a bit _different_ than most, and I knew I could not expect Edward to be as averse to killing a human as I had been. We were eight miles from the nearest town; no human would come to this area in the middle of the night. Regardless, I knew I would have to be careful to keep Edward as far from humans as possible, at least until his eyes lost their red color.

We were in luck—there was a herd of deer about a half-mile to the south. Edward stilled as soon as he caught the smell, and was gone in an instant. _He really is faster than any vampire I've ever seen. _Shock and fear gripped me, and I charged after him as fast as I could, realizing how dangerous this could, potentially, be. If Edward were to catch the scent of a human, they would be dead before I could reach him. When I finally caught up to him, he had already killed two deer. I sprang quickly as they scattered, grabbing a buck and draining him as Edward paused to observe me in intense concentration.

Suddenly, the breeze brought a new scent with it—a black bear. Edward's head whipped in the direction of the animal, and he was off again, leaves and dirt still floating to the ground long after his feet kicked them aloft. I, again, ran after him quickly, arriving as the scene was ending. Edward's shirt, which had already sustained substantial damage from his own hand in his final moments of life, was now beyond any hope of repair, and lay in shreds on the forest floor. The kill played like a reenactment of my shared memories, the experience serving him well. The bear clawed fruitlessly at his head, and with one snap of the beast's neck, the hunt was over.

It was very quiet, then. After Edward had finished, he stayed crouched over the animal, almost remorseful, deep in thought. Leaning against a nearby tree, I listened to the sounds of the woods, keeping alert for any sound or smell of a human coming too near. The darkness of our surroundings reminded me of the end of the first day, when Edward had told me "no." And again, upon his awakening—_what had he meant?_

Edward sat and leaned back against the carcass of the black bear. He did not look at me as he spoke, "I was responding to what you were thinking—or maybe you said it aloud, I'm not sure." His gaze remained on the ground as my thoughts raced back to find what he was referencing. I came up blank, and opened my mouth to ask him to continue, but he quickly answered my unspoken question. His voice was quiet, slightly bitter.

"You were ashamed of what you had done in changing me—you blamed yourself, thought yourself selfish; you wondered if you had done the wrong thing. Perhaps you didn't actually say it in as many words, but that's what you were thinking. You're wrong about that—you made a promise to my mother, and however…unusual the method, you kept it." Though his expression was sincere, he spoke the words mordantly.

"My mother was convinced that she knew what was best for me, and I must admit that she was right, most of the time. She even tried convincing me not to fight in the war."

Edward's face fell again, and the night descended into a serene silence. It seemed that he needed a moment to gather his thoughts, and I felt it would be inappropriate to interrupt him with the throng of questions at the forefront of my mind.

He stated that he didn't think I had done the wrong thing, but how did he truly feel about it? I was certain he could find a path in this life that would exceed any expectation he could have had as a human—I had searched for over two centuries before I found my true calling, and I could not imagine a better existence. The ability of my mind to analyze and comprehend, combined with the heightened senses and physical advantages, made me more effective than I could have ever hoped to be as a human.

But I remembered, all too well, the doubt that had clouded my mind as a newborn, the hopelessness and self-loathing that composed my very being. Did he feel the same as I had?

"I'm not sure I can say 'thank you,' Carlisle, if that's what you're after," Edward's smooth voice drifted to my ears, startling me from my musings. His eyes met mine, and I half expected them to be the same green color as when he was human. I'd had no idea what to expect of him after the transformation—how much of him would change. But he was still so entirely _human. _His eyes narrowed at my thought, and then he looked away, sighing in obvious perplexity. It was amazing how many of his human habits he had retained.

"I'm not looking for gratitude, Edward," I responded, "I'm concerned for you. I cannot read _your_ thoughts, so it is imperative that you be entirely transparent with me. You've seen how vivid my memories are of my own transformation, and I want to help you in the transition as much as I can." He didn't respond, and I looked away, knowing what needed to be said.

"I was only twenty-three when I was changed, and I never had the chance to have a family of my own, or become a father. But just because I am not afforded the option doesn't mean it hasn't been a deep desire of mine. I haven't always had the desire for a family; mainly, I just longed for companionship of some kind—the idea of _family_ didn't happen until I met you and your mother. I won't question what force it was that brought you into my path, Edward, but whatever it was, it seemed to know exactly what I had always wanted in a son."

I paused to let my words sink in. If Edward doubted the sincerity of my words, all he had to do was search my mind—he would find the truth there; that I already loved him as a son, regardless of how he saw me. He truly was _everything_ I had yearned for. "I realize it may be too soon for you to accept me, particularly in that role, but know this: I will be whatever you need—at this moment, and through eternity."

He nodded his head in understanding, not looking at me, his face holding a look of one beyond their years. He was silent for an immeasurable amount of time, his focus far beyond the trees and hills that surrounded us. Finally, he shook his head, seemingly in resolution, then looked at me.

"I…I don't know what to say, Carlisle; I honestly don't know what I need anymore. I hear the explanations in your head describe every sensation, every new instinct that floods my body. _My body—_is it even really mine, anymore? I feel more physically…alive," he winced, "than I ever did when I was...human. Yet I'm undeniably a monster; one expected to feed off the blood of my own kind…" he choked on the last three words, his hands instantly kneading at his forehead in frustration. "But you tell me I can't—_I shouldn't_. How do I do it? How do I quench this fire in my throat?"

I resisted the urge to embrace him; to hold and comfort him like the child I so desperately wished him to be. But Edward did not need the burden of my selfish dreams right now, and I quickly buried them in waves of calming, reassuring thoughts. If they had slipped through, he did not mention them.

"You tell me we can live off of animals, like the deer and bear; but they're not enough. I have this…craving…for more, for something else. It burns, Carlisle—so much that I can barely think of anything else. It's what my body _needs_, isn't it? It's so powerful…" His voice dropped to a whisper.

"I'm scared, Carlisle. You won't be able to stop me if I try to kill a human. Will you."

He didn't state it as a question—he already knew the answer from my thoughts, but I still shook my head in resignation. This ability of his was going to be both incredibly convenient and exceptionally annoying.

Edward chuckled, but the sound was completely devoid of any humor; it was bitter and forced. However, it was not entirely in response to my own thoughts.

"How ironic. I was so sure I was destined to become a soldier, who would be forced, at some point, to kill other men—possibly women and children. And I was more than ready to accept that fate. Yet, here I sit, my path on this earth the same: a mercenary of death to mankind…and yet, I can't fathom living that way, at all."

Pausing, his jaw was now taut with emotion, his eyes reflecting the first rays of the morning as his face began to shimmer in areas. It was a stern reminder that we needed to return home before daybreak, and then prepare to leave that night.

"Where are we going?" Edward's tone was sharp, clearly unsettled by my latest train of thought.

"We have to leave Chicago, Edward; the city is too highly populated and you may be recognized." That aside, the sudden appearance of a dependent I never had before would raise a few too many questions. My professional tone had returned. "We should move north, perhaps to Minnesota or Wisconsin. The weather is more suitable for our kind, anyway—the fewer sunny days, the better."

Edward's head shifted to the side in a silent question, and I stepped into an errant sunbeam to illustrate. He blinked, his eyes widening in surprise. The expression reminded me of a young boy I had examined, once—he had just seen a rainbow for the first time. I held back a smile, giving him a slight nod in affirmation before walking toward home, turning to make sure he followed.

Edward was standing beside the bear now, staring blankly at the corpse. It must be a lot for him to process; but with his newer, more agile mind, I doubted it would take him very long.

He shook his head again, but this time it was different—less…distressed. Edward peered over at me, an acquiescent look on his face.

"It's all just so _strange_. My body is telling me one thing, my mind another; and then, there's _your_ mind, competing with everything else. I feel torn, confused—not myself, yet more myself than I have ever been. Does that make any sense?"

I nodded, recalling the memories of how I was, long ago—dazed, confused, and terrified; experiencing, feeling, and thinking almost the exact words he had just spoken. We were not so very different. Edward's lips broke into a bizarrely crooked grin—it somehow fit perfectly into his symmetrical features.

"Thank you, Carlisle," he began, sincerely. "It helps to know I'm not alone. I don't know how you did it without someone there to guide you…"

I couldn't help the exultant smile that crept onto my face. It wasn't anything definite, but it was a beginning, and that was all I could ever ask of him.

_He'll stay with me, at least for now._

I turned my back on the rising sun, hearing Edward fall into step behind me.

"And, Carlisle?" He paused, waiting for me to respond.

I stopped and turned, choosing to answer his question wordlessly. _Yes, Edward?_

His mouth turned upwards at the corners slightly, the tiniest allusion of a true smile. The glow of the sunrise surrounded him in a soft halo, emphasizing the sincerity written across his angelic features. He looked me squarely in the eye before continuing.

"Thank you for being there—for helping us at the hospital; for trying to save her...us."

I could only nod in reply as we continued our journey home side-by-side, phantom tears welling up in my eyes. He and his mother had forever changed my heart; they had left their mark permanently, and I would never again be content alone. He really had no idea what he meant to me.

_No, Edward—thank you._

_

* * *

_

_This is the end of the beginning. I have more in the works; Esme is up next. _

_Never fear, Edward fans_—_he's almost as integral as Carlisle is to this story, now.  
_


	5. Ashland

_I do not own Twilight or Carlisle. All patriarchal goodness belongs to the genius of Stephenie Meyer.  
_

_To my beta, locqua_—_there are no words. Well, I do have one, but it doesn't come close to surmising my gratitude:  
"Rawr."  
_

_

* * *

_

_Prologue_

I didn't understand. She hadn't done anything to warrant such obvious vehemence from Edward, yet there he stood, _snarling_ at her.

He could have been upset with my decision to bring her into our lives, I suppose; a sort of translated sibling rivalry, or an instinctual, territorial reaction to her presence.

Whatever the reason, I needed to find a way to calm him before he tore her to ribbons.

* * *

After returning home from our hunt, Edward and I began packing up what few belongings I had. I made my excuse at the hospital easily: I was a lucky survivor of the Spanish Influenza, but too weak to continue working there. I needed to find a less demanding position—somewhere more _remote_. I had a contact at the State University in Minnesota, Dr. Erik Andersen, who I had consulted with on several occasions through letters during my time in Columbus, Ohio.

I contacted him through the Chicago telephone exchange, in hope that he would know of a vacant position in the Minneapolis area. Dr. Andersen was eager to assist me, but unfortunately, he knew of no openings. He did, however, redirect me in my search, as he knew of an open position at the main hospital in Ashland, Wisconsin. The growing town was in desperate need of another physician, and I accepted without hesitation. Because of the small size of the population and the vast, surrounding northwoods, it was the perfect place for Edward to live out his newborn years while he practiced control.

It was difficult for Edward to leave his life behind in Chicago, and so I allowed him one final visit to his parents' house before we continued our journey north. We walked through each room in absolute silence, faded memories almost perceptibly heavy on his heart as his heightened senses took in the darkened surroundings. Upon leaving, he squared his shoulders as we crossed the edge of the yard, his gait becoming more determined. He was trying not to look back.

Edward was my constant companion in the years that followed, though he struggled daily with homeric courage to maintain our lifestyle. I was a constant pillar of support for his suffering, but I, paradoxically, found myself needing him just as much. Our relationship had been borne of a promise, but it became, in itself, a richly blessed companionship. Even if I could have managed to mask my daily joy upon returning home to his company, he would have heard it in every one of my thoughts.

Our constant dependence on one another deepened and strengthened our relationship, bringing it to a level that not even the Volturi had managed to achieve within their fellowship. Though the general population rarely saw Edward, they would come to know him as my shy, orphaned nephew.

But I could never think of him as anything but my _son_.

* * *

For the past three years, every day had been the best of my life, and this particular evening was no exception. The sun was low on the western horizon, its view obscured by the thick forest surrounding our home. Edward and I were in my study, amiably engrossed in our individual tasks. I was at my desk, pouring over recent medical journals, while Edward sat in the corner chair, his attention completely absorbed by the latest medical textbook I had ordered for him.

During our first year in Ashland, Edward had thought he would enjoy studying law, as his father had. However, he had given up the prospect after the first year, finding the laxity in some of the nation's laws terribly unjust. I had returned home one day to find him totally entranced by my personal medical journals, which he had found on my desk. Thrilled with the realization that he was quite interested in the study of physiology, I began tutoring him during the day, recalling my own undergraduate lectures to use as a guide. Perhaps one day he might have the control to attend medical school, as I had.

Of course, his most reverent pursuit had turned out to be rather different from my own the moment we moved into our new house. The previous owners had left an old Schiller piano in the drawing room, and Edward fell immediately in love. He had taken lessons as a boy, and he drew on his former skill, spending hours playing the few, simple melodies that he could still remember. I soon found myself ordering hundreds of pieces of music for him every week, and he delighted in his enhanced ability to memorize and play every one with absolute perfection. My work became secondary to my joy in returning home to a private concert, each subsequent performance better than the last as he continually improved.

I smiled at these memories, inwardly rejoicing that, though Edward had found my own calling to be of great interest as well, he had found something so vastly unique. With the leaps he was making in his control around human blood, perhaps he could become an instructor one day. Brief, supervised interactions with humans, such as a piano lesson, might be the ideal practice for him.

My brief sojourn into the memory realm ended suddenly, however, as Edward's voice brought me back to the present.

"As wonderful as your nostalgic thoughts are, they are incredibly difficult to tune out. I'm having trouble concentrating." The mock aggravation in Edward's voice was thick with amusement as he glanced at me over the top of his book.

I gave him the best apologetic look I could manage, eliciting a chuckle from my budding prodigy. This had become an almost daily routine for us; Edward's snide remark was always timed exactly five minutes before I would prepare for work. I couldn't help but laugh with him—his enjoyment was my own. We fell into a comfortable silence, and Edward raised an eyebrow, waiting for my next line.

"I need to leave for work, anyway." I stood and walked to the door, putting on my unnecessary coat and hat. Edward followed me to see me off; he was as lonely in my absence as I was in his. His book was tucked lightly under his arm, and I noticed a finger holding his place. He was well practiced in our human charade, and I beamed with pride as I stepped outside.

Edward walked out beside me, and I affectionately wrapped an arm around his shoulders. "What fine, musical masterpiece might I look forward to hearing tomorrow morning?" I asked, though I knew that he preferred to leave his options open.

Edward grinned crookedly, "I suppose it will depend on my mood. This medical textbook isn't very optimistic. I may have to pull out a mournful Beethoven sonata."

I laughed at his joke—we both knew I was to work in the morgue that night. Surrounded by the dead for twelve hours straight always put me in a bit of a melancholic reflection; and unfortunately, my frame of mind was contagious to him. I gave his shoulders a final squeeze as we exchanged a long look in farewell before I turned and ran towards the hospital, the brief two-mile journey filled only with thoughts of my son.

Upon reaching the hospital, however, my world became the size of the small room that was the morgue. I had three bodies already on my schedule that night, and I would no doubt have several more to catalogue before my shift was through. It was inanely frustrating when I was required in the morgue —after all, I went into medicine to heal the living, not work among those who were already beyond all hope.

I moved at a human's pace during my examinations, not wanting to finish everything in the first hour of my shift. Still, the time passed slowly, and I found my spirit sinking with each subsequent, lifeless body that passed through the door. Between the falling trees and freak accidents caused by dangerous equipment, the logging industry in northern Wisconsin was incredibly deadly. The steady influx of patients and bodies—primarily men—was due, in large part, to this perilous trade.

I was surrounded by the very antithesis of my immortal existence, the mortal adversary to my crusade in this world.

After finishing with the last case—the last _person_—I glanced at the clock. Only fifteen more minutes and I would be done for the day. I knew Edward was eagerly awaiting my return, and though there was nothing I loved as much as my work, Edward had quickly become my priority.

The sharp _bang_ of a gurney as it opened the swinging doors to the morgue distracted me from my musings. I recognized the orderly—it was Elmer, who had brought several other bodies down during my shift. His bright smile was a striking contrast to the gloom of the ambient atmosphere as he wheeled in yet another corpse, whistling merrily.

"Hey there, Dr. Cullen!" His routine greeting was thick with his Norwegian accent. "We just got this one half an hour ago. Do you have time for one more?"

I politely smiled. "Of course, Elmer. Was an autopsy ordered?"

"Nah, Doc, this one's a closed case. She's a jumper." _She?_ The unusual pronoun caught my attention, as the majority of cases at the hospital were men. I grimaced at his nonchalance as he playfully slid the patient's records across the now-vacant operating table.

As I picked up the files, I suddenly heard an odd sound and I looked up speculatively at the orderly. _Did he have a heart murmur?_ "Are you feeling all right, Elmer?"

He laughed, "Yes, sirree, Doc! I'm fit as a fiddle, and there's no way in hell you're getting me on that table." Elmer pointed accusingly at me. "You're just sick of dealing with dead folks, so now you want to pick on the _live_ ones…" He trailed off, and my attention reverted to scanning the records in my hands.

The body that lay before me was that of a local schoolteacher, Esme Ann Evenson. The name struck something deep within me, but I didn't stop to consider it; I needed to finish my work. She was a war widow, and had just recently lost her newborn son to a lung infection. She was found by a local fisherman at the base of a cliff earlier that morning, and upon arrival at the hospital at 5:30, she was breathing, but unresponsive. The fractures and contusions that covered her body were too numerous to treat, and she was given a negative prognosis. The admitting doctor had ordered her placed in a room for observation, but upon transference, she had stopped breathing. _They must not have realized that she had fractured vertebrae in her neck, and her spinal cord was severed when they moved her, _I official time-of-death was issued at 5:43 a.m.

Elmer was now halfway into divulging a tale of his latest conquest within the nursing staff, and I made sure to nod and chuckle at the appropriate places while my mind wandered back to the woman who now lay dead on the table. Then suddenly, as I studied her bruised and bloodied face more closely, I was startled by the vision of a young girl.

Esme Ann _Platt_. I finally understood why her name had been so familiar. I had once treated her for a broken leg in Columbus, Ohio at least ten years ago. I remembered her so vividly; she had made quite a remarkable impression on me.

* * *

For a sixteen-year-old girl, Esme was surprisingly determined. Even as I set her broken tibia, which, she self-consciously admitted, was injured by falling from a tree on her family's farm, she seemed incredibly interested in my personal life. _Did I live in town? What did I like to do outside of work? Did I have any hobbies? Was I married?_ I danced around her questions easily—the less people knew about me, the better—choosing, instead, to discuss her injury in great detail. But I remembered the look in her bright green eyes as I treated her, framed by a tangled mass of caramel-colored curls: attraction, as was usually the case with my female patients, but there was also a great mystery hidden beneath her obvious interest.

About a week later, Esme was outside the hospital as I was going into work. She was sitting on the front steps reading a book, leaning against the door with a schoolbag at her feet; her crutches propped carefully against the building. _She had been waiting. Why?_

She looked up and quickly put her book away as I approached. Her eyes were dancing with joy, even as she tried to appear casual. "Hello, Dr. Cullen."

"Good evening, Miss Platt. I trust your leg isn't bothering you." I kept my greeting polite.

She stood slowly, using the door behind her for support. "Oh, not in the least, Dr. Cullen. You did such a wonderful job—I hardly even notice it." She hopped a step towards me, careful not to put any weight on her bad leg. But the movement caused her foot to catch in the strap of her book bag, and she pitched forward.

I reacted instinctively, catching her under her arms before she was even halfway to the ground.

"Careful, there," I chuckled, lifting her back to her feet. But as I moved, she wrapped her arms tightly around me and buried her head in my chest. _Was she in pain, or experiencing dizziness? Didn't she notice how cold and hard I was?_

"Thank you, Dr. Cullen," she sighed, squeezing me tighter. I froze.

_God in heaven—was it possible that she was more than just attracted to me?_

I gently pried her from my chest, reaching for her crutches and bag, and handing them to her. I quickly bid her good evening with a curt nod, and escaped to the sanctuary of the hospital. Certainly, many women had shown obvious interest in me before, but none of them had dared _act_ on it. There was usually something about my inhuman appearance that was unsettling enough to ward off most women.

Yet, day after day, for over two months, Esme waited for me on the steps of the hospital to wish me a good evening. It got to the point where I considered sneaking in through the back entrance, but it was not in my nature to run away from a problem. Instead, I told her that her behavior was inappropriate, but unfortunately, my words did not discourage her. Yet, she was only a human girl; her infatuation would inevitably pass, as my impending departure would necessitate. I was already pretending to be 35, and it would soon be time to move on.

When I arrived for my final shift, Esme was not in her usual spot. I was surprised to find myself disappointed in the discovery—I had grown accustomed to her faithful visits, and was hoping I might finally break the attachment she had formed to me. Perhaps she had finally given up.

My hope was unfounded, however, as I left the hospital the following morning and immediately sensed her following me. She was trying to be stealthy, but her scent and heartbeat were impossible for me to miss. I stopped and turned, seeing her quickly duck behind a building. _What was she doing at this time of the morning?_

"Miss Platt, I know you're there." I glanced warily at the sky to the east. I didn't have time for this.

Esme emerged from behind the building, and it was then that I noticed the redness and sorrow in her normally bright, emerald eyes. From the look of it, she had been crying all night. She walked slowly towards me, her eyes trained on the ground.

"You're leaving today." She sniffled, and fresh tears began to stream down her face.

"Yes, I am."

She opened and closed her mouth several times, in evident indecision. I glanced again at the ever-lightening sky, and wondered how best to end this conversation. Finally, Esme let out a sob and brought her eyes to mine once more.

Suddenly, she bolted forward, running up to me and flinging her arms around my waist.

"I'll never forget you!" She wailed, her tears soaking my overcoat.

I let her have her brief moment—whatever she needed for closure, but still, I pushed her away from me before she could notice that I didn't have a heartbeat.

Finally, she backed up a few steps and gave me a watery smile before turning, and then walked in the direction of the high school.

* * *

Elmer was just finishing his story from before; the entire memory had replayed in less than a minute. He was walking towards the door as he finished the punch line, but I missed it when I was instantly distracted by the mysterious sound again. Elmer continued to cackle at his own joke as he exited, the doors swinging slowly to a close as his laughter faded away.

Once he was gone from the room, I deciphered exactly what I was hearing. My attention was now fully captured by the woman on the gurney before me.

_Esme's heart was still beating._

It wouldn't be audible to a human, nor would they feel a pulse, but with my enhanced senses, I could hear the telltale sign of life. I rapidly moved to her side, feeling her cervical vertebrae with my hand. My earlier suspicions were confirmed—the second and third vertebra in her neck were indeed fractured. If her spinal cord had been punctured at either of these points, it would have shut down her ability to breath, which would ultimately result in cardiac arrest within five minutes. Her death had been declared approximately six minutes ago. _How was her heart still beating?_

Time abruptly stopped.

I had to make a snap decision, the consequences of which I would undoubtedly have to live with for the rest of my existence. This woman that I had met all those years ago had been brought into my life again, seemingly by chance. But did I believe in chance after the Masens had left their mark on my heart? _No_. I now believed, beyond a doubt, that everything happened for a reason.

Only someone with my senses would be able to tell that Esme still lived. The severity of her injuries dictated mortality within five minutes, yet she was determined to hold on. Would she still want to live in this world without her husband and child?

Her pulse continued to weaken, and as I looked at her again, I was frozen in vacillation. In Esme's place lay a woman of similar countenance, alive, but weakened with fever. Her chest was heaving, her bronze hair and eyes so very analogous to Esme's, yet entirely different.

Esme _was _startlingly akin to Elizabeth—or had Elizabeth reminded me of a long-forgotten Esme? Their spirits and appearances were rapidly becoming almost inseparable in my mind.

Hastily, my decision was made.

I leaned forward, pressing my lips briefly to Esme's brow in a wordless act of contrition before moving down to her neck. I sucked in a breath, preparing myself for a possible repeated experience of uncontrollable bloodlust, while also listening intently for any sign of pending interruption. This wing of the hospital was thankfully all but deserted. I remembered Edward's transformation with vivid detail, and I hoped that I could spare her the painful bite that Edward had endured; the massive laceration I had given him was unnecessary.

With abandon, I finally sank my teeth into her neck, holding them still as the venom mixed with her cooling, thickening blood. It pooled in my mouth before running down her neck onto the soiled gurney beneath her. I forced myself not to swallow, instead, focusing intently on her heartbeat and limbs for any indication that the venom was working.

Within minutes, her heart began beating more fervently, the venom strengthening the organ first, in order to spread itself more efficiently throughout her body. I eventually pulled back, licking the wound clean and sealing it.

Hope began to rise in my chest as her heart grew stronger, and I quickly grabbed my things before returning to Esme's side. I lifted her into my arms and sprinted for the side door. Once outside, I ran unnoticed into the thick woods, where I easily found my usual trail.

I had a strange sense of déjà vu once more—dodging trees with a nearly lifeless body in my arms. But this time, the patient was already faintly twitching as the venom started to work, healing her injuries before beginning the process of transformation. As I neared our house, I was reminded of something else.

Home_—and Edward._


	6. Division

_As always, with deep regret, I must state that I own neither Twilight, nor the resplendent Carlisle. Insert woeful sigh here._

_This chapter is only here thanks to the most amazing beta on the planet, locqua, who also helps me out among the wolves of life. Does anyone know how I can nominate her for "beta of the year?" I'm serious. She should do this for a living._

* * *

Edward waited as a marble statue at the door, his irate glare fixed on Esme's lifeless form as he stood rigid, eyes wide, hands clenched into fists at his sides. I had consulted him on every major decision in our lives thus far and anticipated his surprise at my hasty actions, certainly. But_ anger?_

I thought back to earlier that morning, recalling my train of thought immediately before my consequent decision. Suddenly, I found myself taken aback by a pang of remorse—I had not considered Edward in bringing Esme into this life.

He flinched in the doorway, swallowing thickly. I could only imagine how he was perceiving my actions, taken without his accord.

_I had to save her, Edward. Please try to understand._ I urgently pleaded with him, hoping to pass along some semblance of reason, but he was gone in an instant, the swaying, broken branches left in his wake the only evidence of his passage. I stared after him in shock, my thoughts imploring him to return, but he was already miles away.

Just then, Esme sucked in a breath—her first in ten minutes—and my focus quickly returned to the woman in my arms as I hurriedly rushed her inside. The injury to her spinal cord was finally healing, her nervous system recovering autonomic respiratory control.

I immediately recognized a problem as I gently placed her on the couch in the drawing room—_Why hadn't I thought to get a bed for this house?_

* * *

At sunset the following day, I unwillingly left Esme's side for the hospital. Though she was breathing at last, she hadn't shown any indication of cognizance yet, nor any outward sign that she was in agony. Her nervous system was still clearly suffering from shock, but the increased twitching in her extremities indicated that the venom was working fast. If I made my rounds quickly, I could formulate an excuse and be home in a matter of hours—I did not want her to suffer alone, as I had.

I stepped from the house into the silent dusk, listening for any signal of Edward returning. Gradually, my heart sank—there was no sign of my beloved son—and I reluctantly continued on my way to the hospital.

After I hastily, yet assiduously finished the first of my rounds, I handed my duties over to a capable, overjoyed resident student. Complaining of a generalized, fictional illness, I requested sick leave for the next few days.

Once certain my responsibilities were in competent hands, I ran towards home as quickly as I could, praying that Esme had not yet regained consciousness. But I paused upon reaching the front door, sensing Edward's fresh scent. _He was home._

I flew inside, finding Edward standing motionless over Esme's writhing form.

"Edward?" He slowly turned to me, his face an unreadable mask.

"Her thoughts are becoming stronger. She wants her baby." He cocked his head to the side in an unspoken question, his eyes black in glaring accusation. _Of course, he _would _jump to conclusions,_ I thought. His eyes narrowed further and I sighed, moving over to Esme's trembling body, kneeling beside her as I clarified.

_She recently lost her newborn son to a lung infection, and, previously, her husband to the war. She threw herself from a cliff, apparently wanting to reunite with them._

After explaining her thoughts, I gently traced my fingers along the back of her neck, thankfully finding each of the fractured vertebrae entirely fused. All of a sudden, Esme screamed—the cold contact from my touch must have finally brought her out of shock. I flinched in surprise at her sudden outburst, turning to Edward, whose tortured gaze was still set on Esme.

"What is she thinking, Edward?" I asked. He refused to look at me, and I sensed his mood darkening by the second

He answered flatly. "She thinks she's still dying at the base of the cliff, and she's praying for one of us to kill her. She's also thinking about her husband—" Edward's mouth abruptly hung open mid-syllable before he snapped it shut, his jaw clenching tightly.

I had seen that look before, when he'd heard a murderous plot play through a man's mind in town. I tensed, immediately scrutinizing Esme's tormented, screaming form with deep concern. I looked to Edward in desperation, my worry increasing exponentially with every second of his continued silence. _What is it, Edward?_ He only shook his head in reply.

Looking away from my distressed son, I grasped Esme's hand in mine, the memory of Elizabeth overshadowing her, briefly. I was aware of Edward sucking a breath through his teeth in an angry hiss before I heard him turn on his heel and fly upstairs, the door to his room slamming shut not a second later. I brought my free hand to my forehead, rubbing it in frustration. Though his peevish silence was wearing on my patience, we would never get anywhere with his propensity to run from difficulty. And, admittedly, I had missed him terribly during his day's absence.

_Edward, please don't leave me again._

"I'm not_ going _anywhere, Carlisle," he snapped from above.

I felt my primary concern was rapidly becoming divided between my surrogate son and the broken woman that lay crying out before me. I had no doubt that Edward also sensed the monumental change; perhaps this was what had been causing his outbursts, like a kind of translated sibling rivalry. Unquestionably, he would always be the first in my heart, but I was also quickly forming an attachment to Esme as well. Of what sort the attachment was, I could not be sure—certainly not a romantic one, as I barely knew her. But a nagging feeling persisted just out of my apperception; something was brewing deep inside of me that would not be ignored.

Esme had made quite an impression, even at sixteen; she was determined, strong, and there had been that an incomprehensible light in her eyes as she gazed at me. The memory sparked a small flame in the middle of my chest, the warmth spreading and growing until I could feel it in the tips of my fingers. It was similar to the feeling that came from thinking of Edward, but more…intense.

The reminder of Edward brought with it a stab of longing, and my mind wandered again to my stubborn son upstairs. I was lonely for his company, Esme's presence unable to fill his place in my heart. _Would it always have to be either one or the other?_

Esme's ongoing screams finally snapped me from the extraneous thoughts that were plaguing my overworked mind, and I rubbed my forehead again, trying to rid them anyway I could. Whatever my feelings turned out to be for the poor, hopeless creature writhing before me, she was undeniably my responsibility now; I had chosen to save her from mortality, and it was my duty to help her find her place in the world, wherever that might be.

I gently stroked her hair, brushing the strands away from her damp brow. A few drops of sweat slid down her temple, joining with rivers of tears as they collected in her hair. The movement entranced me, and I felt compelled to press my mouth to the small pool, the salty moisture coating my lips. Esme's screams quieted to whimpers as she unconsciously leaned into my icy kiss, the heat of her skin searing mine, her scent thoroughly enveloping me. Bringing my mouth to her ear, I whispered my promise that I would not leave her side until the process was complete.

* * *

Time continued moving forward, its inevitable march seeming progressively slower with each beat of Esme's fated heart. I knew it wouldn't be much longer. Two days had passed, and I could sense her transformation drawing to a close—her features had become more angular, accentuated beautifully by her flawless skin; her scent was also drastically different, sweeter and purer.

Edward eventually left the confines of his room shortly after midnight, still maintaining an angry sulk as he moved to sit before his piano in the drawing room. He began to flip through countless pieces of music, but refused to play. Finally breaking his silence to answer my curiosity at his inaction, he stated, with no small amount of bitterness, that he felt it was disrespectful to the dying.

I ignored his insolent remark, thankful that he had decided to join me once more, and focused on delivering my speech to Esme. I began by reminding her of our first meeting in Columbus, then reintroduced myself. I paused, asking Edward to confirm that she could hear me before I continued. He simply nodded his assent listlessly, remaining perfectly silent. Moving forward, I explained everything about our lives to her – that we were vampires, and how we came to live in Ashland. I began to tell her Edward's story, but was stopped before I had opened my mouth. A firm "_Don't_" was the only thing he said as he shot daggers at me with his glare.

"Dr. Cullen!" Esme unexpectedly cried out, practically gasping in pain, the sound distracting me from a would-be argument with my obstinate son. She reached out in my direction with one hand, and I sorrowfully embraced it between both of mine, gently squeezing her hand in comfort and reassurance.

_What is she thinking, Edward?_

"You should have killed her, Carlisle," Edward replied in an eerie, yet bitter monotone.

I could sense the direction this conversation was going from the sharp edge to his voice, and decided to spare Esme as much of it as possible. _Is that what she is thinking, or is that_ your_ own opinion?_

I heard his teeth grind together, but once again, he refused to reply.

I sighed, bringing one hand from Esme's faltering grasp to pinch the bridge of my nose in exasperation. _What's done is done, Edward. I understand that change is not easy for our kind, and it may take you a while to accept her; but it's practically a moot point—we don't even know if she will choose to stay with us._

"_You_ don't know what she will choose," he amended, his eyes hard.

I started to reply, but was quickly silenced as Esme cried out again, the wail fading until she could only pant in agony. I reached for both of her hands this time, the scene disturbingly familiar, and I instinctively knew the end was almost here.

Edward looked back at his music, the pretense obvious; he was only there in case I needed him. I had asked him to stand sentinel, my experience with the Volturi having taught me that newborns could be incredibly unpredictable. I had taken a risk in having been alone with Edward upon his awakening, and felt it was unwise to press my luck with Esme.

I looked to my son again as I listened to Esme's heart, anticipating each successive beat to be the last. His face twisted as he pointedly avoided my gaze, looking to the keys of the piano.

Finally, Esme took her last, gasping breath as a human, then her heart fell silent. I furtively glanced over at Edward, who was now apprehensively perched on the piano bench, his eyes unfocused on the floor beside him. Two entire minutes passed, neither of us breathing or moving. I looked back to the exquisite, new woman on the couch, wondering at her stillness.

"Esme?" _Why had she not yet opened her eyes? _

"She's listening to everything, taking it all in. But for the most part, she thinks she's in heaven," Edward answered, cocking an eyebrow emphatically as his eyes met mine, his voice taking on an almost snide tone at his latter comment.

Esme smiled lightly as her eyes fluttered open, focusing immediately on me, recognition clear in her scarlet orbs.

"Carlisle," her voice sang. My shock at her informal use of my name barely had time to register before she sat up, swinging her legs down off the couch instantaneously. She gasped, clearly in astonishment at her fast movement, and I tightened my hands around hers in reassurance, smiling to convey my understanding.

Her expression fell as she pulled her hands from my grasp before reaching back over to hold mine within hers for a moment. She studied them, her brow furrowed in concentration before her features melted into…relief? Finally, her newborn eyes rose to meet mine, absolutely sparkling with joy. _What was she thinking? _

Edward let out a sharp hiss, the low, clear sound causing Esme to tense. She whipped her head around to stare at him in astonishment, as if she had just noticed him for the first time. I also turned to look back at him, only in utter confusion, startled myself by his blackened eyes and sinister mien.

_Edward, what is it? Is there danger?_

He was glaring at her, no longer seated, but now in a defensive stance next to the piano.

"Edward," I began, but my query was interrupted by Esme's voice.

"Oh, Carlisle," she laughed. I turned to her, hoping for some kind of explanation when her hand shot toward my face. I reacted quickly—Edward's stance having put me on the alert—and leapt backwards, away from the couch.

"No!" Esme cried as I catapulted in reverse across the room. Her hand was still outstretched, face now drawn with sorrow.

I relaxed upon seeing the sad look in her eyes, my compassion for this bereft woman almost entirely overriding my survival instincts. Edward was a motionless statue, his face frozen in an unreadable, fierce expression, so I cautiously stepped forward, watching her closely. Esme seemed to sense my apprehension, moving carefully as I approached, her eyes holding mine captive. With one hand still outstretched, her furrowed brow smoothed with every step I took towards her, until, with her beautiful face beaming, I finally stood within arm's reach. She reached forward slowly, taking a deep, unnecessary breath as she brought her hands to my forearms, sliding them slowly down until they fit snugly in my hands, squeezing tightly.

As I stood before her, she gazed deeply into my eyes, smiling once more as she gradually brought one hand up, gently tracing my right cheekbone.

"My angel," she sighed softly. I was frozen, mesmerized by the mysterious light in her crimson eyes—it was the same glow I had seen all those years ago in Columbus as the then-sixteen-year-old Esme had, daily, bid me good evening.

A loud snarl interrupted my thoughts. Edward was now crouched in an _offensive_ position, his teeth bared.

Esme was behind me in an instant, her arms wrapped tightly around my midsection as she trembled in fear.

He looked as though he was about to rip her to shreds, though I could not understand what Esme had done to provoke such a heated reaction. Had her movement toward my head been misconstrued as a threat? Whatever his reason, he should have known better—he could read her thoughts, and there had been no indication of vehemence in any of her actions. Edward lunged forward, curses interlaced amongst incensed growls as he focused on the frightened newborn who was attempting to pull me backwards.

"Edward, stop this," I commanded. Ignoring me, he continued to stalk forward in a low crouch, eyes black with rage. Esme whimpered, clutching me tighter.

Then, as suddenly as it began, it ended. Edward's expression sobered as he straightened, looking almost remorseful. My eyes darted over my shoulder, seeing the caramel strands of Esme's hair tremble as she pressed her cheek into my back. I looked to Edward again, his face unreadable even as his body shook with utter rage. After three years, I had learned to read Edward well, though he no doubt thought himself to be a gifted actor, and it was at times like these where I was grateful for that knowledge. The casual observer might accept Edward's outward appearance of serenity, despite the disconcerting mood swing. But he didn't fool me: he was still appallingly livid.

"Edward, _please_," I spoke evenly, hoping to further calm him. He sucked in an irritated breath through his teeth before speaking.

"Fine," he whispered contritely before abruptly leaving the room. Less than a second later, I heard the squeak of his customary chair in my study.

As soon as Edward was gone, Esme reluctantly released her hold, and I slowly turned to face her. She reached for my left hand, her eyes shamefully diverted.

"Carlisle, my throat—it's burning. Does that mean I'm thirsty? That I need to…hunt?" Gradually, she looked up through her lashes, shyly meeting my curious gaze.

"Yes, that's correct. Why don't we take care of that now?" I offered my arm politely, and she took it willingly, keeping her body close to mine. As we left the house, I almost thought I had imagined the quiet growl as we passed the closed door to the study.

_Edward, I am not letting this go. I need to look after Esme at the moment, but you and I _will_ discuss this as soon as I return._

He did not answer.

I forced myself to leave the trouble with Edward behind, walking silently through the forest, arm-in-arm with Esme. As we wandered deeper into the expanse of the northwoods, I explained how she would need to use her sense of smell and hearing to seek out worthy prey, how a carnivore would be more appealing than an herbivore, such as the common deer. This led into a discussion of the most prevalent carnivore: the human. I had no doubt that her instincts would take over, but the prospect would no doubt be terrifying to her, especially as a woman of her background.

She executed her first kill with absolute perfection—on an unsuspecting rabbit. Smelling it first, she looked quickly in my direction before bounding off after the tiny beast, cutting off its escape and pouncing. She swiftly drained it, her senses clearly reeling at the fresh intake of blood, before leaping to her feet, catching the scent of another animal and darting after it in the same manner.

As she gained confidence, she moved to larger and larger prey, capturing a wolf before finishing with a doe. I never let Esme leave my sight—though she could easily have outrun me, the remaining traces of human blood that lingered in her body having heightened her every sense and ability. After each subsequent kill, she returned to my side, practically beaming with pride at her own success. Regrettably, her blouse and skirt were becoming increasingly stained with each successive feeding—we would need to fix the clothing problem soon, though she seemed oblivious to it.

Once she had drank her fill and ebbed her burning thirst, we turned to head back towards the house, our arms linked together in a cordial manner. As we leisurely strolled along, Esme chattered nonstop, filling me in on the details of her life since I had left Columbus. She described how she had become a schoolteacher at twenty-two, and moved out west before marrying Charles Evenson at her parents' insistence. She paused, then, her countenance and voice darkening as she continued.

Esme quickly found Charles to be a horribly abusive man, however, and sought the support of her parents when he was drafted for the war. Dismissing her accusations, they urged her to be silent, even as the violence escalated upon his return from overseas. After discovering that she was pregnant shortly thereafter, she fled alone to Wisconsin, vowing never to bring a child into such a home.

But despite her best efforts to keep her baby safe, her infant son tragically died of a lung infection only a few days after she gave birth. Esme went on to describe feeling as though she had lost everything in the world, the unbearable pain of that realization driving her to attempt suicide. The grief-stricken woman, who I had brought back to life, had thrown herself from a cliff in dire hopelessness—the transformation having only healed her physically.

_But her heart was still very much broken. _

My steps slowed as compassion for this poor woman ripped through my chest like a knife. I brought a hand to her shoulder to convey my sympathy as she fell into my arms, weeping.

Eventually, Esme stepped back from my embrace, automatically wiping at her face for tears that never came. Reaching to straighten her blood-stained clothing, she noticed, for the first time, the extensive damage to her blouse, looking ashamed as I struggled to hold in my amusement at her horrified expression. She caught me, however, and her lips trembled for a brief moment before she burst out laughing. I couldn't help but join her as we continued home, our mirth fading as we reached the front door. Turning to stand between me and the entry way, she reached again for my hands, holding them tightly as she searched out my gaze. The magical light had returned to her eyes, enchanting me, as they now shone brighter than before.

"I never got the opportunity to thank you, Carlisle," she began. "Not only for helping with your—" Pausing, she glanced briefly over her shoulder at the house. "Well, for helping with Edward—his anger just reminded me so much of my husband's." She blinked a few times before continuing, as if fighting tears. "But I really want to thank you for saving my life. I have _never _forgotten you, and somehow I just knew, all along, that I would find you again. I guess I just never imagined that _you_ would find _me_," Esme chuckled lightly, the sound belying the gravity of her words.

I smiled and nodded slightly as I quietly led her inside. I was so focused on her expression of gratitude that I almost stepped on the shirt and pants that sat folded just inside the door; Edward had solved the clothing dilemma. She looked at me and shrugged sheepishly, removing her hand from mine to pick up the clothes. I instantly missed the warmth. Suddenly, I realized that there had rarely been a moment since her awakening when she was not in direct physical contact with me. The peculiarity of that insight was a bit unnerving—I was unsure as to why the observation felt so important. Instead of dwelling on it, I quickly passed it off as newborn insecurity, perhaps a trait carried over from her late bereavement.

Stopping once we were inside, my senses automatically began to search for my son. Faintly, I could hear the light _thump_ of a book as it closed—he was now upstairs in his room. I turned to Esme, inviting her to change in any of the rooms downstairs, and asking her to excuse me while I spoke to Edward alone.

I found him standing in front of the window silently, not acknowledging my presence as I entered his room and closed the door. I had no idea why Edward was so agitated, but I kept my thoughts guarded nonetheless, not wanting to give him any further incentive to upset himself.

_Son, what is troubling you?_

Edward turned, suddenly furious, and hissed through his teeth, "She's _in love _with you, Carlisle!"

I shook my head, but held his stare. _No, Edward, you're wrong. Whatever you may have heard in her thoughts, you cannot assume it is any sort of _romantic_ love, not when she has been hurt so deeply. She is just happy to be in familiar company again—to not be so alone in the world. For the first time, she is beginning to have hope for the future._

His stance had not changed, but he lowered his voice. "How do you not _see_ it? She does and says exactly what she's thinking, and she's made it pretty obvious—looking to see if you were wearing a wedding band, calling you _her_ _angel_, thinking that she'd make _such a good wife_—" His words dissolved into a snarl as he fisted his hands in his hair, pulling, as if in agony.

I felt my jaw clench, but I immediately forced myself to relax, consciously scanning through my body rapidly to release any further tension I was holding. I was careful to mask my thoughts from Edward, yet found my reaction quite puzzling to me—_Why was I acting…defensive?_ I sighed in mounting frustration.

_Son, I have no choice but to trust that you are telling me the truth—as _you_ observe it. But I think you're overreacting. You seem to assume that her thoughts are the future, set in stone; she isn't even twelve hours into this life, and you have already named her as an enemy. You may not agree with my decision to change her, but you will treat her with the same acceptance that you were shown upon your birth into immortality._

He growled, his voice rising. "You were _sorry_ you bit me—overjoyed to have a companion, yes, but at least you felt remorse for having turned me without my consent. Can you say the same about_—_that…_woman_?" He gestured behind me to the door, and I instantly listened for Esme's movements downstairs. She was humming some beautiful melody as she moved throughout the different rooms, familiarizing herself with her new home, I speculated. I thought about Edward's remark, searching my motives for the guilt I expected to find lingering, just beneath the surface of my contentment. To my complete and utter surprise, I found nothing.

Edward snorted, presumably disgusted with me. I turned my attention to him once more, impatience gnawing at my controlled thoughts.

_I am going to say this once more, Edward, and I will not say it again, so mark me. I know things will change if Esme decides to stay—in what regard, neither you nor I can know—but I will always love you as my son, first and forever. This jealousy you seem to harbor towards her is completely unwarranted, and it will stop this instant._

His voice grew in volume as he snarled in anger. "You don't understand, Carlisle! All she can think about is that she's getting _everything_ she always wanted: you as her husband, and _me_ as her _son_." He spat the final word, his lip curled upward on one side in disgust.

All of a sudden, there was an odd**,** distracting noise from downstairs—wood scraping against wood. Edward's head snapped to the door as another hiss escaped before I had a chance to react. He sprinted from the room, his feet barely touching the floor as he raced down the stairs. I followed with haste, arriving at the sitting room in less than a second, finding it quite different from how I had left it. The furniture had been rearranged—the couch and chair were now in front of the fireplace, the piano by the window. Surprisingly, with these few modest changes, Esme had drastically improved the aesthetics in the room.

I turned to commend her, but found Esme backed into the corner as Edward crept menacingly toward her.

"_You. Touched. My. Piano._" He enunciated each word distinctly before audibly swallowing a mouthful of venom. Esme instinctively dropped into a defensive crouch, her eyes darting first to me, then to Edward, and back again in indecision. I calmly walked up behind him, placing my hand on his shoulder in the event he needed to be restrained.

"I didn't hurt anything, Edward. I—I just cleaned things up a bit," Esme stuttered through her explanation, her soothing voice a stark contrast to her wary posture.

"Didn't _hurt_ anything?" he yelled. "You just got here, and already you think you can just claim whatever—or _whoever_—you want! You can't! This is _our_ home, _our_ life, and _that_," he pointed to the piano, "is _mine._"

"Edward, you will not speak to her that way," I reprimanded sternly, whipping him around to face me as I grasped his shoulders tightly, shaking him lightly in an attempt to break him from his madness. Why was he so territorial and possessive all of a sudden? _What has gotten into you?_

He opened his mouth to reply, his face contorted in rage, but then abruptly closed it. His eyes moved to the side, indicating his attention as he considered Esme's thoughts, the telltale glaze over his eyes signifying his divergence into someone else's mind. Suddenly, Edward relaxed, motioning for me to remove my hands. I complied, but kept a concerned eye on him—his unexpected volte-face was disconcerting, as his body was betraying nothing.

His features melted into his crooked grin, the normally attractive expression now sullied by a devious arrogance. He turned to Esme once more, his icy stare frightening her further. She glanced anxiously at the door and windows, most likely planning possible escape routes in case his fury erupted again.

Edward took in a breath to speak, his voice dangerously even as he continued to size up Esme.

"_He_ is mine, too."


	7. Melee

_All belongs to Stephenie Meyer: I own neither Twilight nor Carlisle, though apparently Edward thinks _he_ does.  
_

_To all my faithful readers and reviewers: you are all so wonderful, and I cannot thank you enough for your continued encouragement. Sorry for the late update; my job sucks the life and inspiration from me.  
_

_A huge thanks to my beta, locqua, to whom I am quickly wracking up a pretty substantial eternal debt. Rawr!  
_

* * *

Esme's eyes grew wide before she bolted, flying past both of us at full speed and ripping the front door off its hinges in her haste to escape. I turned to Edward, who was now sitting at the piano with his arms crossed, clearly pleased with himself.

A growl emitted unconsciously from deep within my chest as I scowled at my ostensible son. Edward's eyes grew wide in shock—I had never growled at him before, and he was quite unsettled at my requisite act of ferocity. He looked away in shame, staring at the wall to my right.

Honestly, I was just as surprised and ashamed at my unchecked reaction. I was so practiced in the habit of humanity that I had deemed such base, feral instincts to be all but completely suppressed. Regardless, I couldn't find enough warranted desire to rein in my fury as I let my reprimand loose.

"That was entirely out of line, Edward. You know better than I what Esme has been through, and yet you treated her like a common criminal. You may think you know everything because you can read her thoughts, but she has _done_ _nothing_ to deserve your petulant outburst."

I paused, daring him to argue. He kept his eyes averted.

"I am ashamed that you would go so far—to even _suggest_ that you think of _me _as belonging to you. People are not possessions, Edward, and you know full well that I have never thought of you in that regard. You have no reason, whatsoever, to assume such a thing. Despite that, you have now put us in a very delicate position." Edward's eyes widened marginally as my words sunk in—Esme was far too young to be out on her own; she could very well run into town, drawn by the scent of humans. Being a young vampire himself, prone to the usual weakness, he ought to have known better_. _ "I am extremely disappointed in you."

Edward nodded in understanding, his head hanging down on his chest.

I sighed, feeling my anger ebb slightly at his defeated expression; however, it was at that moment that his eyes flickered to mine, a pompous glint barely concealed beneath his façade of contrition. My temper flared anew.

"I'm going to find her, and you _will_ apologize." I turned to leave the room immediately, unable to remember the last time I was this angry.

Picking up her trail outside, I was able to follow it easily—_at least she had retreated into the woods instead of heading towards Ashland. _

I ran as quickly as I could, putting five miles behind me before a minute had passed. And then I smelled it—_human blood_.

_Dear God, no!_

Her trail led in the same direction of the scent, driving me to push myself harder as I concurrently prayed that I wasn't too late. Breaking through the tree line, I found myself on the main road. Esme had been moving so quickly that she had barely left footprints in the fine sand that bordered the gravel pathway.

I ran another two miles before I came across a horse—still saddled—lying in the middle of the road, still alive, but missing its two forelimbs. I walked up to the thrashing beast, snapping its neck, effectively ending its pain, and threw it easily into the brush on the side of the road. Despair gripped me like a foreboding fetter, freezing me momentarily in my pursuit as I grasped the ramifications of her actions—her fresh trail led back into the woods on the other side, now resting lightly on top of another's: fearful, panicked, unmistakably human—_and close_.

I broke through my dread, forcing my limbs into action, leaping across the road and into the thick brush. But as soon as my feet touched the ground, I skidded to a halt, my heels digging into the forest floor.

Esme knelt with her back to me, no more than fifty feet from the road, in the process of draining the blood from a man. His eyes were wide in fear and staring straight into mine, pupils dilating as his life was sucked from him.

She stood after finishing, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, then gasped in surprise as she caught my scent. Slowly she turned to face me, her eyes darting between the corpse and my cautiously inert position. Esme reflexively brought her hand up to her mouth as sobs tore from her throat.

"Oh, Carlisle," she wailed, "What have I done?"

Resigned, I relaxed and walked to her, wrapping my arms around her petite frame and rubbing her back soothingly. Our consoling embrace was not so different than it had been ten years ago in Columbus, but I could detect the blood from her shirt soaking through mine as she pressed closer, effectively reminding me that we still needed to destroy the evidence.

My heart went out to Esme, compassion immediately dissolving any chastisement I may have had for her slip. She was only a newborn, after all, and it hadn't exactly been her fault that she left the sanctuary of our home, unsupervised and unchecked. She trembled as I held her, a whimper of an apology escaping with every breath, and I wondered if she feared my reaction to her attack. Slowly, I pulled away with every intention of telling her that I was here to bring her home.

But as her eyes met mine, they were not the dark crimson I was expecting. They were now pitch black and heavy-lidded as she gave me a predatory appraisal. Her lips pulled up, curling back over her teeth in a snarl, as a low, yet undeniably feminine growl began to rise from deep within her chest.

I had little time to react before she pounced, her newborn strength knocking both of us to the ground, the sound of our collision echoing through the hills and forest around us. She quickly moved to straddle me, attempting to pin my arms to the ground as I struggled pointlessly against her. Her teeth began to rip at my shirt as I fought to free myself from her iron grip.

Esme was too strong for me to fight on my own. _I was done for._

_Edward—son, I need you!_

I knew I was beyond the reach of his ability to hear my thoughts, but I called to him nonetheless. As Esme tore away the remaining fragments of my shirt, her fingernails gouging deep lacerations on my chest, my thoughts fought through the pain, turning to Edward—if I ceased to exist, would he be alone for eternity? Would he seek revenge on Esme for her actions? Would he have the strength to continue our lifestyle without my support and guidance?

The sensation of Esme's mouth at my throat dissolved every thought of my son from my mind. Her teeth scraped ruthlessly along my skin, and I shut my eyes tightly, every muscle in my body tensed and taut as I prepared myself for the inevitable beheading.

It never came.

Instead, my eyes snapped open as I felt her tongue licking a path up to my jaw, her hands caressing my chest and arms at a slow, deliberate pace, fingers tracing the already-healing cuts and scratches. I barely had time to consider her actions before her mouth was on mine, her soft lips nipping and stroking, begging mine to part. It was at that moment I realized that I had entirely misinterpreted her actions—

She was—_kissing_ me?

For the first time in my long existence, my mind shut down, coherent thoughts refusing to form as she let out a strangled sound—_did she just moan?_ My jaw unlocked beneath a feather-light touch of her fingers, her lips pressing harder as mine parted; my mind raced to keep up with her movements as her hands were everywhere at once, yet the rest of my body remained frozen. As my gaze wandered, fixed on the canopy above and focused on the dappling of blue sky beyond the softly swaying leaves, I was finally able to form a thought—_was I in shock?_

Esme's mouth had finally left mine, trailing down my neck to my shoulders and chest, leaving a thin layer of venom on nearly every inch of my skin. The combination of the moisture and soft breeze caused me to shiver, the pleasant, warm feeling spreading throughout me again, as it had during her transformation—only this time, it was much more intense, bringing a bit of fear with its unfamiliarity. I tried to ignore the sensation, willing my lungs to function once more, successfully sucking in a breath to speak some reason into the frantic newborn.

"Esme, I—" She cut me off as she slipped her tongue easily into my open mouth, moving it at a blinding speed—licking, sucking, and caressing my own. Her hands found their way from my shoulders to my hair, as she wove her fingers through it, roughly gripping and massaging while continuing her attack on my mouth. My head rose off the ground as she brutally pulled me upwards to effectively deepen her kiss, causing me to wince and groan at the sharp pain. She seemed to take my reactions as encouragement—she relaxed her legs, dropped her lower body and ground her hips roughly into mine.

I gasped in agony and Esme ended the kiss, raising herself up slightly. Her darkened eyes stared into mine as she rocked against me, throwing her head back and increasing her movements. My mind was a tangled web of indecision—if I acted quickly, I might catch her off-guard. Newborns were strong, yes, but inexperienced; if I didn't let her pin me again, I might have a fighting chance.

_But did I want to fight her? _Apart from the brutality of her actions, unknowingly caused by her unrealized strength, my body was responding to her, something that hadn't happened to me in over a century. A small part of me, long suppressed and all but forgotten, was enjoying her touch; the larger part, practiced and perfected over centuries of study, screamed for rational thought and action.

I had just begun to deliberate my course when I felt Esme's unrelenting fingers beneath the waistband of my trousers, causing my hands to unthinkingly grab her wrists in an effort to stop her. An over-zealous nurse had once tried the very same thing, but I feared this scenario would have a very different outcome—_she_ was unyielding and immovable. Esme's eyes were locked on her hands, half-hidden beneath the heavy cotton, her fingertips just lightly stroking—

"Esme, _no!_" I finally managed to growl out, my jaw clenched in anxiety, grasping her wrists as tightly as I could, and struggling, ineffectually, to dislodge her hands. Her eyes flitted to mine for only a brief second before a sly smirk gradually spread across her face. Bringing her head down, she skimmed her nose along my jaw , inhaling deeply her lips traced up to my ear.

"_Yes_, Carlisle," she purred. With that, she tore her arms loose from my grasp and plunged them down the front of my pants, grabbing me fully and squeezing forcefully.

I snarled in immediate agony, somehow managing to throw her into a nearby tree, effectively breaking the good-sized pine in half. Crouching low, I found myself completely winded as the pain exploded, all sensation gone but for the sharp, stabbing agony between my legs, which was currently gnawing at the pit of my stomach as well. My head snapped in her direction, my instincts instantly seeking out the cause of my distress. She stood with her back to me, dazed, head wobbling on her neck a bit before she quickly regained her bearings.

Sensing my foreboding stare, she whipped around, and I hobbled backwards, still trying to maintain a self-protective crouch despite the hindering throb that dictated my slow pace. I couldn't think of anything but the pain, however, my defensive instincts gradually took over as she started walking toward me again, her expression now one of confusion and guilt.

"Carlisle, I'm so sor—" she began, but never finished. From nowhere, a blur of blue and bronze collided with her small frame, and my mind struggled to make sense of the hisses, snarls, and then the thunderous _crack_ of marble bodies colliding. A familiar scent finally snapped me from my haze—_Edward._

The two vampires were barely distinguishable, a tangle of limbs and brown hair, Esme's strength equaling Edward's ability to read her next moves. They paused only a few minutes after the fight began, crouched not ten feet apart, snarling at one another, seemingly at an impasse. I reacted instantly, leaping to stand between the two with my hands raised.

"That's enough, both of you," I commanded, wincing a bit as the pain worsened briefly with my quick motion. My reaction didn't escape Edward's notice, his eyes darting to the source of my discomfort before his face tightened in concern.

_I'm all right Edward._ He relaxed a bit, yet still gave Esme a scrutinizing glance as she, in turn, moved to stand more at ease. Finally bringing my hands down as the tension began to diffuse, I summarized my explanation silently to Edward as best I could, focusing on leaving out the majority of the details of our brief encounter.

_She slipped when she came across a man riding on the road, which is completely understandable for a newborn. But her unexpected…assault was a bit unnerving. I am glad you came. She was a bit…too much for me to handle alone._

His eyes remained on Esme as he answered, "I know. I _heard_," he sneered.

"What did you hear, Edward?" Esme cocked her head slightly as she spoke, her eyes darting between the two of us, narrowing in suspicion.

_Son, I think it would be best if we discussed this aloud._

He nodded almost imperceptibly, walking closer and standing with his right side in front of me. The movement was reminiscent of his earlier, territorial standoff with Esme, and I moved a few inches away from him in objection. Edward didn't look at me, but my silent statement seemed to deflate him a bit, his shoulders sinking a fraction of an inch.

Esme sighed loudly, the sound bringing my attention from Edward. _Why was it so difficult to focus on both of them at the same time?_

She stood with her arms crossed beneath her chest, her clothing still soaked with human and animal blood, making her breasts visible through the thin, wet fabric. Edward growled lightly, and, thinking he was upset by my unintentional observation, I averted my gaze, looking straight into her bright, red eyes. Her brows were drawn together as she started to speak.

"I'm not sure an apology will suffice, but it's all I have. I…really don't know what else to say." Her eyes were downcast and she stood as stone, the deception of human movement still unnecessary in these early hours of her new life.

Edward snorted. "Say what you mean," he snapped. "You're only sorry that you killed someone."

I stepped in front of him, standing sideways, again directly between the two of them as the tension grew, deciding to mediate.

"That's enough, Edward. You may not agree with everything Esme has to say, but you will address her with the same respect you afford me." My voice was stern, even to my own ears, and I expected Edward's remorseful, sheepish gaze. I was, however, entirely unprepared for Esme's reaction.

"No, Carlisle," she said resolutely, "he's right."

I automatically turned toward her upon hearing the bold resignation in her voice, my back now to Edward. She stood to her full height, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth as she looked at the young man standing stiffly behind me.

"But," she continued, "what's the point of voicing my thoughts if Edward will do it for me?"

I gasped, her statement drawing a low growl from Edward. _Had our unspoken conversations been so obvious? _Whereas Edward looked irate, Esme seemed calm and self-satisfied in their stare down, neither one blinking or moving. I was still shaken from before, the lingering symptoms of her assault adding to my apprehension with the situation, and I felt as though I might be ill.

Edward was the first to speak. "Well, since that's out in the open," he cast a quick glance at me before returning his unblinking glare to Esme, his expression darkly amused, "I'd like to tell you exactly what _I_ think of your _pathetic_ hopes and dreams—"

"No." Esme cut him off with a menacing word and look before I had enough time to open my mouth to utter a similar sentiment. I was growing weary of Edward's blatant, unwarranted animosity; whatever his problem was, he needed to deal with it, not take it out on the spirited woman currently beginning her own tirade. I considered interrupting and taking charge of the situation, but stayed silent, now curious as to what Esme had to say.

"For years I followed my parents' advice, allowing the man I loved to hurt me, silently praying that if I took the anger from him, it wouldn't return." She took in a shaky breath, her hands balled into fists at her sides. "But no more, Edward. _No more._ I realize you dislike me—"

"_Hate_ you," Edward interrupted. I resisted the urge to hiss at him, finding myself feeling an influx of sympathy as I regarded the pained expression on Esme's face.

"I realize you…hate me for loving Carlisle," she glanced at me softly, and I blinked in surprise, quickly looking at Edward to gauge his reaction. He was utterly still. "But we both know that's not the issue."

There was a pause as the two studied each other, stone-faced, nothing in either of their expressions to give away the purpose of the silence.

Edward finally quirked an eyebrow, cocking his head. "What does your _dead child_ have to do with this?"

"You're not the only one who lost someone you loved dearly," Esme countered immediately, taking a few slow steps forward. Edward stood his ground, his countenance hardening by the second.

"You think you know me because Carlisle told you how I was changed?" Edward swallowed thickly, his voice dangerously low. I could tell that he was holding himself back.

Suddenly,I realized that Esme was at my side, and I tensed instinctually, though I was also quite surprised at how comfortable I felt with her close proximity. She made no move to touch me—not even sparing a glance in my direction as she remained intensely focused on Edward. I felt a bit lost in the conversation, as though the pair had forgotten my presence, neither one acknowledging me.

Her voice rose slightly. "I wouldn't dare assume to know you, Edward—as you seem so entirely opposed to the idea of letting me try. But that's not my point."

"Make it, then!" He took a few steps forward, his gaze shifting to me briefly, anxiously. _What was he afraid of?_

I glanced quickly at Esme, shocked to find her eyes on me as well. I was apparently not entirely forgotten, their sudden scrutiny a bit unnerving. Though I knew it was impossible, I felt as though I was missing something. Esme looked to Edward again, raising her chin a few inches.

"As I said, you are not the only one who lost someone. But you are the only one who won't let yourself hope that you might find them again."

Edward's upper lip twitched as he fought back a sneer, but he remained stoic. Esme continued to speak.

"You may hate me for my dreams, Edward, but I know you must have your own—and I would never dare ridicule them." She looked away, her prior confidence seeming to fade as her words hung heavily in the air.

"Yes," Edward spoke suddenly, "you're right."

"Right about what?" I demanded. I looked between Edward and Esme, tired of being lost in the middle of their debate, and determined not to be ignored any longer. They seemed to be waiting for the other to answer, neither one moving.

"She thinks it would be best if she left," Edward answered at last. My heart instantly sank—she wouldn't leave because of Edward, would she?

I looked to Esme quickly, but she spoke before I had the chance to comment.

"I can see that I have somewhat intruded on your…family," she said, her voice sorrowful as she looked up at me. "Perhaps it would be better if I sought company elsewhere…if you want me to."

I was taken aback. Of course I didn't want her to leave—I had created her, and she would not suffer solitude for my selfish actions. But was that the real reason behind my wanting her to stay?

_No, _something deep within me answered. Why were my motivations with Esme so clouded?

"It's your choice, Carlisle." Edward's voice was sharp, cutting through my reflections, the anger in his voice palpable. I was confused at his query. _My choice?_

"Who you want to stay—I will not live within a fifty mile radius of _that_." He gestured to Esme, who shifted an inch closer to me at his cruel statement.

I was shocked at his ultimatum. _Edward, son—_

"_Don't call me that,_" he seethed, his face blank but for the inky hue of his narrowed eyes.

I felt as though he had slapped me, the pain from my earlier injury seeming insignificant compared to those four spiteful words. His unreadable expression didn't change, even as I allowed him to see how deeply his words had hurt me. Looking to Esme, I took in her blood-covered form, face drawn in anxiety, eyes hopeful.

I sighed, looking at the forest floor and running a hand through my hair in frustration. "Edward, you know I won't make that choice."

I heard him stiffen, and Esme shifted subtly closer to me, the torn sleeve of her shirt brushing my arm, and I found myself actually welcoming the contact.

"Well then," Edward replied curtly, "I think you just did."

And with that, he turned and ran in the direction of home, leaving us stunned in his wake.

My mind was reeling at the thought of him leaving me again. There had hardly been a day in the past three years when we had been apart—could I bear his absence? If he left, would he ever return?

The feel of Esme's warm hand on my arm brought me from my panic, but I could still think of only one thing as I looked into her worried scarlet eyes.

_What had I done?_


	8. Release

_All hail the great Stephenie Meyer, to whom all things in the Twilight world belong. Still waiting for that word from her that says I can have Carlisle, though. I am so jealous of Esme, especially in this chapter._

_A note of immeasurable gratitude to locqua, the greatest beta on earth. I may have to become like Lewis Carroll and make up my own words, just so I may adequately describe your magnificence._

* * *

_Edward, no! _

My thoughts were frantic, calling out to my son with a deep urgency. If nothing else, I knew that I couldn't lose him again, and every muscle in my body tensed in preparation for my pursuit.

Esme's hand gripped my arm tighter, then, but my body still leaned, of its own volition, after my recently absconded son. It was her touch alone that kept me cemented to the spot, something in the warm pressure comforting and calming, even as the two halves of my heart battled ferociously within me, my mind a tangled web. _Why could I not have them both, at the same time?_

"Let him go, Carlisle," Esme's voice interrupted me before I could organize my thoughts. I tried to focus on her words, but every one of my senses still sought out Edward, praying that he would have a change of heart and double back, returning to me. "Maybe he just needs some time to figure this out."

Though I had every reason not to, a small piece of me wanted to agree with her, to trust her. But the rational part knew that she was wrong; she didn't know Edward the way that I did.

"No, Esme, I can't accept that. I won't let him run from this." I attempted to pull my arm from her grasp, turning back towards her when she didn't release me. Her eyes were downcast, brows pushed together in apparent indecision. I could only imagine what was going through her mind, driving me to rummage through my previous statement, attempting to see it from her perspective. Did she take my disagreement as rejection—_was she afraid I was choosing Edward?_ I planned my next words quickly and carefully, hoping to assuage whatever fears she had.

"Esme, please. We need to go home."

"_We_?" Her features were guarded but hopeful, eyes still averted even as she asked.

I nodded. "That is, if you still wish to join us."

She paused for a moment, her expression falling until she looked as sorrowful as she had after her recent, accidental homicide—the corpse lay not ten yards from us, a grim reminder that we still needed to dispose of the evidence before returning home. "Perhaps you ought to speak _only_ for yourself, Carlisle," she whispered hesitantly. Beneath the hushed tones of her statement, an unspoken question lingered—_what do _you _want?_

Drawing in a breath to respond, I suddenly found myself at a loss for an answer. Normally, I chose whatever would make Edward happy, his wants and needs becoming my own. Even in my medical practice, my choices were based upon what the patients and doctors required—I worked longer hours and took fewer breaks, managing the hardest and most dire cases until there was nothing left to be done, either way.

And then there was the sacrifice at the heart of my very nature—the thirst for human life. My first real _yearning _in my current existence had been the lust for human blood, the lure of that all-consuming life force causing me to send myself into exile, cursing all that I had become. Over three hundred years of dedicated abstinence had taught me to suppress my evil, selfish qualities to the point where I was almost one hundred percent altruistic. Was I even capable of expressing my own desires anymore?

Feeling an urgent impatience tugging and leading my heart back home to my son, I turned to Esme, answering her quickly.

"I'm not sure you entirely understand the situation, Esme," I began, her eyes snapping up to meet my anxious gaze. "But I can't let Edward leave like this. Whatever the problem is, he needs help to work through it. I can't let him suffer alone."

She relaxed her grip on my arm, her hand sliding down until her fingers linked with mine. "Together, then?" Her eyes blinked once, but I didn't have time to consider the emotion behind them. I could only sigh in reply; until I figured this out—whatever _this_ was—I couldn't promise her anything.

I moved immediately, instructing Esme as we buried the man and his horse deep in the forest before continuing on, covering the trail of blood on the road. The moment we finished, I sprinted towards our house, Esme running alongside of me, spurring me to move faster in order to keep pace with her. I pushed myself harder with every stride, my dread growing as I feared that we may be too late to stop Edward from leaving.

As we neared home, I could hear the notes of Edward's piano floating through the air. The melody was mournful and familiar, the main motif increasing in dissonance before flowing into a peaceful resolution. It was the Moonlight Sonata—_Beethoven_. I smiled a bit, remembering Edward's playful jest about pulling some of the composer's more morose works to perform after my shift in the morgue. I was reunited with Esme that same night as she clung to the last strands of life, giving me just enough time to save her. But my sadness could not be lifted by the memory; if anything, my trepidation grew at his choice of music. It could not be a good sign.

Esme and I stepped quietly into the house, the music unceasing even as I approached the door to the drawing room. I turned, finding Esme frozen at the front door, unsure of what to do with herself. It wouldn't do to have her wait outside; a shift in the wind's direction could mean disaster, the smell of human blood drawing her into town. However, it was not an option for her to come into the room with Edward. I motioned with my eyes and head, indicating for her to wait in my study, across the hall. With a cheerless expression, she walked languidly into the room, turning to give me a half-hearted, understanding smile before closing the door. I almost laughed, despite myself—she was still accustomed to the human customs of privacy.

But I sobered instantly as I faced the door of the drawing room once more, time seeming to tick by in slow motion as I turned the door knob and entered.

Edward faced away from me, the piano still across the room from Esme's earlier rearrangement. His back was entirely rigid, as opposed to his usual relaxed, impassioned movements while playing. I shut the door silently and crossed to him, the sonata slowing into its final cascading cadence, ending in two haunting, minor chords as I stood directly behind him. Not wishing to interrupt the oppressive silence that followed the conclusion of the piece, I focused on the bland, white walls of the room, effectively masking my thoughts.

After a few heavy moments, I raised my hand, placing it gently on his shoulder and squeezing lightly. I wanted so much to embrace him, but I knew he was in no mood for my fatherly inclinations; if anything, it would only make matters worse. Unfortunately, my actions seemed to set off a reaction that was entirely unexpected.

Edward's entire upper body collapsed forward onto the music rest, his head lying atop his forearms. The smooth wood splintered under the impact, bringing him to rest upon the ivory keys, several of them cracking and breaking. The sudden movement and loud clash of dissonant notes cluttered my already reeling mind, and my hand remained frozen in mid-air. I recovered quickly, however, moving to sit beside him on the bench as quiet sobs wracked his frame, his face still hidden from me. Unable to bear the invisible wall he had put between us, I wrapped an arm around his shoulders, silently inviting him to open up to me. He responded by slowly turning into my embrace and winding his arms around me, inadvertently muffling his cries in my chest. Edward's sobs reverberated where my heart lay dormant, the resonating vibrations making it feel as though it was beating once again. But more than anything, it ached, and I wanted nothing other than to soothe him, to protect him from whatever it was that had caused his grief.

It was reminiscent of his first awakening, when he mourned the loss of his human life. _Was that it?_ I silently mused. _Did he feel that he was losing _me_? That somehow Esme had taken me from him and was taking his place?_

Instantly, he broke away from my hold, jumping to his feet. I looked up to find him gazing out the window beside the piano, the fading light casting shadows on his sullen profile. "That's it exactly, Carlisle." His voice held no bitterness—only deep sadness.

_Edward, you know I still care immensely about you. That will never change. _

He was about to argue when a sudden memory from the depths of my mind effectively silenced him. I had once had a conversation with Aro, a vampire over ten times as old as I, about how, as immortals, we were not ravaged by the passing of time, physically or otherwise. But once a change took place in our minds or hearts, it would be nearly impossible to reverse. Perhaps it was a means of survival for our kind; certain changes were necessary in an ever-evolving world, but being as inconstant as humans could prove maddening, in light of eternity.

"I understand," he began after a few seconds' pause, "but I've also seen your thoughts about her—you're confused."

I sighed and looked at the broken instrument before me, knowing he was right. There was no way around it—the sensations evoked by even the gentlest and most unconscious of Esme's actions were frighteningly unfamiliar—like the way she held my hand so often. My reactions to her feminine, gentile nature were uncontrolled and impulsive, two inherent traits of my more _vampiric_ nature that I had fought over three hundred years to eradicate. Before Esme came into our lives, I thought I had won.

"But do you want to know what I really think, Carlisle?" I looked over, hoping to catch his eye, but his focus remained on something beyond the glass panes that subtly reflected his pained visage. "I think you're falling in love with her—you just don't know it yet. And I can't stay here and watch you figure it out."

_Edward, you're wrong_, I began to silently contradict him, but he abruptly turned and walked behind me to the other side of the piano, picking up a bag I hadn't noticed before and slinging it over his shoulder. He finally looked down at me with a serious expression, his eyes the only indication of his inner turmoil. A sharp, stabbing pain returned to the pit of my stomach, entirely different from my earlier injury. This ache was from my very soul—_he was going to leave me._

I placed a hand on his arm, holding on with every fiber of my being, the words tumbling from my mouth as they entered my mind. "Edward—_son_, _please_ don't do this. I know it's been difficult for you—with Esme—but change rarely comes easily. Regardless of the dangers of being out in the world, unsupported and alone after only three years…" I trailed off, gripping him tighter as I strove to collect my racing thoughts, only able to catch one coherent phrase.

_I don't know what I will do without you._

"I'll be fine, Carlisle," he interjected, expression still somber. "I'm going back to my parents' home in Chicago for a while. I swear to you, I'll be careful."

Shortly after we had arrived in Ashland, I had called in a favor to a lawyer friend, who had helped me procure the Masen estate. I had given Edward the deed as a gift after our first year together, promising to return there with him when he felt he had enough control over his blood thirst. Chicago was a large, populous city, therefore it would be hard for him to abstain from seeking out human prey, especially alone. But more than that, the thought of his absence burned a hole in my chest, making me feel desolate and hollow. _Could I bear to lose him?_

Edward ignored my projected concern, brushing my hand away lightly and moving with determination to the front door. I leapt from my seat at the piano, following close behind his every step. He stopped once we were outside, turning to look at the house one last time, his memorizing gaze pausing just over my left shoulder. Suddenly, his eyes narrowed, and I heard Esme suck in a nervous breath just behind the window of my study as I placed a hand on Edward's shoulder, waiting for him to meet my gaze. Instead, he simply moved into my awaiting embrace. I held him tightly for several long seconds, breathing in his familiar scent, hoping and praying that he would change his mind.

"You don't have to go, Edward—we can work through this together, find a means of reconciliation.

"I just need…time…to figure everything out for myself," he said into my shoulder. "I promise I'll come back. I just don't know when."

A few more silent moments passed, my reluctance to release him growing, but he eventually pulled away, giving me one final glance before darting south. I collapsed to my knees, grief-stricken.

My son was gone.

* * *

Two weeks passed by slowly, time noticeably longer with Edward's absence. I had returned to my work at the hospital, my mind's capability to compartmentalize and consider hundreds of things simultaneously seeming as much a curse as a blessing. How a human could mentally balance family and work concerns was incredible, to say the least.

Esme, on the other hand, was settling in well, though she shared at least a part of my concern for Edward, often leaving me notes of encouragement around my study, stating that she knew Edward would return. It seemed as though I could deny her nothing over the course of the fortnight. The first of her requests led me to order hundreds of yards of fabric and a sewing machine. She rapidly made herself a closet of new clothes, mainly dresses, with a few pairs of pants and shirts, designated for hunting.

She busied herself during my working hours with making our house a home: she had organized every book in my study by subject, author, and title, as well as meticulously cleaned every room in the house, redecorating each to reflect a common style. I came home each morning to a different dwelling, so much color and warmth replacing plain and functional. She had chosen the storage room next to my study for her "bedroom," shyly asking if she might also have a bed for her room, for tradition.

Each morning, she proudly showed me each new addition to our home, and I found myself shocked at how wonderful that word sounded. _Our_ home. Of course, it had always been Edward's and mine, but the term _our_ seemed to take on a whole new meaning. Not only had Esme somehow _made_ it a home, but she had also become a figurative part of it, by putting so much of herself into the more material aspects. But deeper than that, there was something in the connotation of _our_ when Esme was an integral element of it. But that something was locked away, bound and determined to be left unexplored.

She was more than a good housekeeper and amiable company, however; she seemed bound and determined to understand every aspect of my life, particularly my relationship with my recently estranged son. Of course, she was extremely curious to find out all I knew about our kind, as well as my experiences as both a human and vampire over the centuries, but mainly, she wanted to know as much as she could about Edward. When I questioned her motives for probing repeatedly into our relationship, she side-stepped around the subject and never answered me forthright, explaining instead that she didn't want to feel left out upon his return. _Don't trust her_, my mind urged,_ she clearly has ulterior motives to this_. But it was a different, unexplored part of me that replied—_what's the harm in letting her in?_

The continual mention of Edward's absence hurt me deeply, but Esme always changed the subject again, moving on to garner my opinions on what her next project ought to be.

I had also taken every free moment to introspectively explore the meaning of my newfound feelings for Esme. I knew that I wasn't _in love_ with her, though I did indeed love her in some regard, but my unconscious, stirring responses to her words and movements about the house had me peculiarly on edge. Thankfully, she kept a careful, proper distance at all times, the memory of her unbridled, passionate assault still fresh, no doubt, in both of our minds. The majority of our conversations maintained safe, polite subject matter, but the second our casual dialogue fell silent, the air would suddenly become thick with discomfiture as we both lost ourselves in our own thoughts.

However, with every word she spoke, it felt as though I was, again, drawing closer to that _something_. It was more than a feeling or emotion—more akin to some kind of marked _awareness_. I was fearful every time I felt it begin to fester, afraid that it might be some twisted part of my suppressed, evil nature. There would be moments when Esme would suddenly look at me, longing clearly evident in her gaze. As I found myself mesmerized by her poignant expression, I would begin to recognize that unidentified _something—_but as soon as recollection would begin to dawn, it would be as if I had hit a wall, every answer tightly locked away and out of reach, forcing me to look away in frustration.

Even as I resumed my routine of nightly rounds at the hospital and returning home at daybreak, I continued to dwell on the myriad of unexplained sensations that plagued my every thought.

I arrived one morning from the hospital, exactly two weeks since Edward's departure, to find Esme working in the drawing room on the piano. It had been entirely her idea to fix it, knowing that we could not bring a human in to repair it. Though I had assured her that I could easily buy a new one, she was unwavering in her resolve. After giving into yet another of her requests and ordering her a book on piano structure, Esme had been consumed with the repairs, working nonstop for the past several days.

She had just begun laying the new keys on the keyboard, greeting me only with a resplendent smile before returning to her work. I retired to my study, attempting to read through a new medical journal from France, but found myself unable to focus, the constant barrage of sounds from Esme's repairs thoroughly engaging my senses. It was quite disturbing, as I had never before had trouble tuning out distractions.

Sighing exasperatedly, I leaned over my desk and placed my head in my hands—admittedly, I knew that it was not the noise, but the _source_ that had stolen my attention. The memory of Edward's words abruptly came to mind, his voice invading my thoughts.

_I think you're falling in love with her—you just don't know it yet. _

An unconscious groan escaped my lips, and my grip on the sides of my head tightened in frustration. _No_—_I _couldn't_ be_. I had only known Esme for two weeks. Such attachments didn't form so swiftly…did they? Were the bonds between immortals so vastly different from human? Was that why I didn't see this for what it was before?

"Carlisle, are you all right?" I was so engrossed in my thoughts that I hadn't heard her approach my study. Esme stood in the door, brushing some stray sawdust off her slightly wrinkled, dark green dress, her soft, caramel locks falling gently over her shoulders. I nodded in reply, afraid my voice would betray my conflicted feelings, and forced a friendly smile when her brow furrowed in concern.

Thankfully, she didn't press the matter. "I just finished with Edward's piano." The mention of his name brought a fresh pang of longing to my being. She moved on to a new topic of conversation, quickly, as usual, to avoid any awkward silences between us. "I was wondering if you'd like to sit outside with me for a bit—the sun is burning through the clouds, and it's going to be a lovely day."

I smiled easily at her, noting how she stood absolutely motionless in the doorway, awaiting my response. I rose from my desk and approached her, offering my arm as we strolled to the front door. She froze mid-step before racing quickly to the back of the house, returning a few seconds later with a folded blanket. I was unable to hold back a chuckle at her keen preparedness as I opened the front door for her and motioned for her to exit first. She sped past me, laying the blanket on the lawn in such a location as to get the most sun, then comfortably situating herself as I moved to join her.

Despite the pleasant scene, I remained on constant alert, my senses scanning the area every second for any sign of human life. My eyes darted in every direction as I lowered myself onto the blanket, finally letting them settle on her luminous form when I became aware of her hand tentatively tugging on my sleeve. She was stretched out, her dress hiked up above her knees, the garment fitting snugly around her curved figure. Her dress had short sleeves, and the smooth, alabaster skin of her arms refracted vibrant prisms of light as she moved to sit back on her hands. I took in her full form, seemingly for the first time, slowly bringing my eyes to her face as she cleared her throat. I was shocked at my thoughtless actions—_that had been incredibly rude._

"I just wanted to suggest that you try to relax and enjoy yourself, Carlisle. I fed only yesterday, and even if a human were to come close enough for me to catch their scent, I really think it would be all right." Her confidence was astounding, but regardless, she was new to this life. Especially since her…_accident_, I was always in a constant state of worry for her adjustment. The next few months would be the hardest for her, and I needed to be there to support her as much as I could.

"You're still a newborn, Esme," I sighed, "and we cannot be assured of any form of control for at least a full year. It's only been a few weeks. You must be patient."

"I _do_ know, Carlisle, I've already—" She froze, her eyes widening before quickly looking away. I wore a similar expression of surprise.

"You've already _what,_ Esme?" I pressed, both my suspicion and concern growing.

Her eyes darted to the hem of her dress, which she absently began straightening.

"I was cleaning one of the unused rooms upstairs, and it was so dusty that I had to open a window." She glanced at me briefly before her eyes returned to her fidgeting as her words came faster. "And the wind must have shifted because the next thing I knew, all I could smell was _human_ _blood_, and I nearly raced right out to find it—but I _didn't_. All I could see in that moment was your face after I had killed that man on the road, Carlisle, so I just held my breath and kept thinking about how much _more_ I wanted to please _you_."

I released the mouthful of air I didn't know I had been holding as Esme finally looked up at me again. "I suppose it would be pointless to discuss the ramifications of what _might_ have happened," I started, unsure of what to say. Struggling with my thoughts, I frantically tried to make some sense of my muddled mind, but after several seconds, I found only one thing to say.

"I'm proud of you, Esme."

A wide smile lit her countenance with amazing brilliance, and I found myself unable to look away. "Thank you."

She lay back on the blanket, her hands resting across her stomach, a peaceful grin playing on her lips as her eyes closed contentedly. I looked away before my eyes could wander again, glancing up to the azure heavens and allowing myself to feel the sun's warming effects on my skin. _That's it—focus on something _other_ than the beautiful creature laying beside you._

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you, Carlisle," Esme's remorseful voice floated to my ears. "I felt horrible about keeping it from you, but I knew how you would see it. I didn't want to give you another reason to worry. You've got enough on your mind as it is." I felt her searing gaze on me, but I did not return it; I needed to stay focused on something other than the emotions that were threatening to overtake me.

"I understand your reasons, Esme, but you mustn't keep things from me, no matter how you may think I will react. I need you to trust me." I felt my jaw tighten as I finished my answer. I hoped she hadn't caught the unconsciously hidden meaning in those words—the significance of my sudden need for her to open up to me, as I was slowly opening to her.

"I need you to trust me, too." Her tone was meek, and I cringed at the sadness it held. "I know I haven't done much to earn it, but I need your trust as much as I need Edward's—I want to be a part of your family."

I _did_ trust her, to a surprisingly large extent, but Edward was a different matter altogether. Therefore, I didn't know how to honestly answer her. _Why did words seem to fail me whenever she was near?_ I turned to look at her, trying desperately to convey my helplessness. As if precisely understanding my quandary, Esme sat up and slid over until she was next to me, reaching out to take my hands within hers. Her palms were warmer than usual, causing my eyes to close of their own accord. As the heat spread up my arms and into my chest, I felt it begin to settle near my aching heart, soothing it a bit.

"Carlisle, I wish you could have seen what it was like for me when I lost my baby, when I decided to end my life—oh, how can I explain it?" She looked down to our joined hands, her brow creased in concentration and her thumb rubbing a soft pattern on the back of my hand. She turned to look at the distant horizon to the west as a gentle breeze blew her hair back towards me, the soft strands gently caressing my face. I inhaled her scent, the peaceful feeling I had longed for finally returning and rapidly spreading throughout my body.

She took in a deep breath before turning back to face me, her eyes pained but determined. "It was like being in a dark, windowless room, with no glimpse of the sun to mark the passage of time or change of season. I couldn't see anything beyond what was right in front of me—only pain and regret. There was no horizon that marked the end of…anything; all sense of purpose or perspective gone entirely. There were no more beginnings and no happy endings. No more choices, no more decisions. So I just closed my eyes, and jumped."

If possible, I would have wept at her revelation. Once more, I felt the fierce need to protect her creeping through my bones, the powerful urge to save her not only from bodily harm, but also from emotional turmoil, thriving. Just as our shared torment came to a climax, her countenance unexpectedly brightened, eyes alight with epiphany as she continued her story.

"But when my eyes opened into this new existence, I was utterly blinded; my sun had found me again, and suddenly everything made sense. All the pain, all the darkness was proof that I had been living in the wrong world--a world without you."

Esme's smile was now radiant, illuminating every angle of her resplendent face, and I felt that _I _was the one being blinded by her bewitching beauty. Her blatantly optimistic expression confused me, however, and my mind began reeling in its feeble attempt to decode her message. In a flash, she was kneeling in front of me, her hands cradling my face as she held my gaze with her own, our heads no more than a few inches apart.

"Don't you see? _You_ are my sun, Carlisle—the keeper of my heart, my life, and my soul. You are the light that lets me see all the things I had missed before—all the joy and wonder in this life. Because of you, my love, I finally have hope."

Her words struck something deep within, and I recognized it instantly. It was that nagging feeling that had started when I first changed her, and which had been steadily growing with every passing moment. Her story was so terribly familiar, sounding almost like my own. I, as well, had spent the past three hundred years in a kind of darkness, light beginning to break as Edward found his way into my heart. But it was now that I discovered myself suddenly stirring from a dreamless slumber, and awakening into a new realm full of unadulterated joy and exhilarating hope for the future—_with her._

"And I think—well, at least, I _hope_" she amended tenderly, "that you feel the same way too."

With every word of her final statement, I felt as though I had finally awakened, the elusive awareness now fully before me, comprehension dawning as it never had before—

I loved her. In every possible manner of meaning, I loved her.

Before I realized it, I had closed the distance between us, capturing her head between my hands and claiming her decadent lips with my own.


	9. Resolution

_Sorry for the late update, everyone. I completely lost my will to write for about a week, misanthropy setting in like a vile disease._

_I have received no letter of ownership on either Carlisle or Twilight. I guess Stephanie Meyer still owns him._

_This chapter is brought to you by locqua, the amazing beta. I'm thinking about buying her a cape with a giant L on it…though people might take that to mean something else entirely. Maybe I should scrap that idea, in that case._

_But, in all honesty, locqua: thank you, for being there over the past few weeks, _and_ for helping revise this chapter. You are seriously the best. "No, Esme—stay away from those cookies!" :)_

_

* * *

_

I loved her. In every possible manner of meaning, I absolutely loved her.

Before I realized it, I had closed the distance between us, capturing her face between my hands and claiming her decadent lips with my own.

All of the innumerable emotions that had been suffocating me to the point of exhaustion the past few weeks were now completely unraveling, driving my body to act on pure instinct alone. My hands released her face, moving beneath her arms as her fingers raked through my hair. Lifting her to sit in my lap, I began caressing her back before pulling her closer to me.

It was as though a floodgate had been opened, emotions and sensations long since suppressed with my inhuman tendencies coming to the surface and increasing tenfold. All I could think of was the magnificent woman in my arms as I moved to lower us to the blanket, laying atop her and sliding my lips to her neck, nuzzling it enthusiastically as she had done to me just a few weeks prior. Esme gasped in delight as my hands began to stroke her sides gently, and I suddenly became aware that I could remove the offending fabric with just a flick of my wrist. The prospect shot an ephemeral thrill of excitement straight through my body.

But I refrained from acting on that tantalizing thought, instead obliging Esme's demanding tug on my hair, bringing my mouth back to hers as she moved her hand from its hold on my neck. Placing it lightly atop one of mine, she effectively halted its descent against her ribcage. Her lips caressed my own unceasingly as she eventually lifted my hand that rested under hers, guiding it to her breast before squeezing in encouragement. I groaned at the sensation of the soft flesh beneath my fingers, the thin cotton essentially no barrier to my heightened senses. My other hand quickly followed suit, causing Esme to moan into my mouth, her hands clawing at my back. It did not escape my notice that she carefully kept her fingernails from scratching me, as they had before.

I was slipping into a covetous haze, where any coherent thought was all but conquered by pure lust. My fingers began to grip harder, nails now poised to rip the offensive clothing from her body. I pulled my mouth from hers to look down at her, somehow still needing to hear her permission. She groaned in protest, her eyes snapping open to meet mine as she whispered my name in an agonized appeal. The desperation was thick in her heavy-lidded eyes, and for a moment, it was Elizabeth Masen's emerald gaze staring up at me, pleading with me to save her son.

The unexpected visage startled me, and I instinctively froze, oddly fearful of its sudden appearance. Ever so slightly, I pulled away from Esme's mouth, suddenly compelled to regain some semblance of control. I quickly turned my head to the side to avoid her persistent lips, my unnecessary breaths coming in pants. Yet I was nearly dragged under once again by the succubus beneath me when I felt her take my earlobe into her mouth, sucking and nibbling gently. Despite the intense euphoria that threatened to thoroughly drown me, I bit down on my tongue, commanding myself to focus.

I willed my inveterate body to move, but my mind was still in an obscure fog, the sweet, delicious smell of the alluring creature beneath me making my limbs feel heavy and sluggish. Esme groaned in protest when she felt my weight shift and began pulling impatiently at my hair, encouraging my motionless hands on her breasts to action. Her head fell back, my hands following her intimation of their own volition as we both let out a groan simultaneously. My eyes closed, and I ground my teeth together, my last ounce of reason crying out in objection—I had to stop this. _Now._

Rolling quickly to the side of her, I pushed gently on her shoulders to discourage her from following my movement. She whimpered in protest, but remained where she was, panting slightly in an effort to catch a breath she no longer needed. I was astonished at how many of her human traits had carried over into her new life.

We lay there for a few moments in absolute silence before I allowed myself to look at her again. She was sprawled out across the blanket, her hair fanned and tousled about her head and shoulders, her smooth, freshly-ironed dress now wrinkled and hiked up at the top of her thighs. I quickly looked away, a wave of shame washing over me as the realization of what I had almost done started to settle in my mind.

I sat up and turned to face away from her, my mental anguish translated into an audible groan as my head fell forward into my hands. How had I allowed things to go so far?

Suddenly, I sensed more than felt Esme sit up behind me, the air around her swooshing, caressing her form as she moved. Neither of us spoke, the ongoing silence between us now becoming more uncomfortable with every passing second. I knew that one of us needed to break it, or it would soon become unbearably awkward, and I would have volunteered, if I had known what to say. Thankfully, she chose to address me first.

"Well, that was…" She hesitated, her indecision obvious as she trailed off, searching for the word. Or was she looking for a way to express her own opinion?

"Unexpected," she stated definitively, a slight tremble within her tone peaking my curiosity. I glanced over my shoulder, seeking the answer to what had changed her normally steady voice. Her eyes were downcast, and she was playing with the hem of her dress again, the corners of her lips twitching upwards—was she _amused_?

Esme glanced up to meet my questioning gaze, her eyes giving her away. She _was_ amused. I, however, was not, and I could feel my features tighten in response. My stern expression caused her to look down, but not before she pressed her lips together, stifling a reprehensible smile. Turning my head towards the house, I couldn't suppress the growing anger at my own thoughtless actions. These feelings kept churning within me, my head virtually swimming in its fruitless attempt to make sense of this all. I took in a deep breath, ensuring my voice was calm even as my emotions raged within me.

"I am most regrettably sorry, Esme. I don't know what happened—I just…lost control. It was entirely out of character for me, and I'm thoroughly ashamed at my actions. I promise you that it will never happen again—"

I was cut off in my apology, however, by the most beautiful sound that I had heard in all my years: Esme's unbridled laughter, tinkling like church bells behind me as she fell to the blanket. I suddenly wanted nothing more than to laugh with her, but I could find nothing funny in the situation. So I waited for her to quiet, still facing the house and mentally planning the next portion of my speech. Regardless of my newly discovered feelings for her, I had been inexcusably forward and disrespectful. How, exactly, did one deliver an apology for such heinous grievances? Just as I was beginning to sort through my own, tumultuous repentance, I was abruptly startled when I felt her hand on my shoulder—I hadn't heard her move.

"I wasn't exactly complaining, Carlisle," she started, laughing lightly once more. "I swear, you have nothing to apologize for. Truly." But there was no way she could know the reason behind why it had been so wholly disgraceful for me to have…attacked her in such a fashion. It was utterly reprehensible.

"Carlisle?" Esme's worried voice slowly drifted to my tempest-tossed conscious.

"I don't know what's wrong with me, Esme. I haven't lost control like that since…" I trailed off, deciding it was best to omit my previous misdeeds until it was necessary. "In a very long time. It scared me."

Remaining quiet for a moment, she placed another hand on my other shoulder and began kneading lightly, the tense muscles in my shoulders instantly relaxing under her touch. "I think I understand, Carlisle."

"I can't imagine that you really do," I sighed, my hands rubbing at my temples in anguish. I, myself couldn't even grasp what it truly _was_ that I was feeling at that moment, so how could she? Guilt, lust, shame, remorse, satisfaction—the felt them all, distinctly, yet they also seemed to muddle together in a complex, frustrating way. But more than anything, I knew that the primary emotion coursing through my veins was personal _disgust_. I had experienced it countless times during my newborn years, and I had vowed never again to give that particular emotion cause to emerge by my own actions. Yet here I sat, thoroughly and unmistakably disgusted and angry with myself.

"Do you remember the story you told me? About how you changed Edward?"

My mind raced through the possibilities of where she was taking this. Thinking back through what I had told her about the hospital in Chicago, I looked for anything that might have a connection to our current situation, but came up empty. I nodded, affirming that I did recall that particular conversation, even as my mind sought desperately to figure out what her plan was. Was she merely changing the subject?

"You may have thought it was irrelevant, but you said something that caught my attention." She paused, her hands continuing their massage down my back, dissipating every bit of tension. "You said that you wanted someone with whom you could share your life; someone who would know you for who you _really_ are, rather than the human you pretend to be."

Even through the tangled debris surrounding my thoughts, her soft words and comforting hands managed to melt away the last of my agony, and I felt as though I was finally able to think cogently again. Was Esme suggesting that _she _was the one who could know me for who I truly was?

"It's still true," I replied. "I can't tell you how wonderful it is, after over one hundred years in solitude, to drop the human charade at the door of the hospital and return home to others of my kind."

"But, Carlisle—you have yet to stop pretending."

The tension in me returned anew—physically, emotionally, mentally—the accusation in her words sparking a deep defensiveness I was unfamiliar with. I whipped around to face her fully, causing her to leap backwards onto the blanket.

"Do you mean to say that you feel I have been putting up a pretense with you? That this entire time, I have not been completely forthright and honest?" I could hear the pain in my own words, and it thoroughly surprised me. The very idea of ever hurting her made me enraged, the possibility crippling me in anguish.

"No, no!" she backpedaled quickly, "I only meant that…well, you never seem to _act_ very much like the vampire that you are." I blinked in utter shock at her incredible revelation; _she was absolutely right_. Slumping in defeat, my posture became passive once again, and it encouraged her to continue.

"You're always pretending, Carlisle—even around Edward. You never slip up, because you always think of others before yourself. You're practically human. It's even hard for me to be around you sometimes, as perfect as you are." She paused, shaking her head in self-correction. "As perfect as you _appear_ to be—and I think Edward must feel the strain, too. You seem so entirely un-relatable to me, as a newborn; I can only imagine what it's like for him. So faultless and untouchable…but I _know _that's not the real you."

The pain within me worsened; she was right again. I was puzzled at her disapproval, however. She seemed to _dislike_ my more human qualities, yet I couldn't see the downside to them—what was not to like? Regardless, I was afraid of the truth behind my mask: how could I make her understand why I _had_ to be that way? How did I tell her what had happened in my life that had dictated the requirement of my careful façade without losing her respect? Without losing her _love_?

However, she didn't miss a beat, even as I sat stunned and useless before her vivacious form. "For once, it was _nice_ to see your other side—the less restrained, less placid side of you that you're always denying. That's the _real_ Carlisle: Carlisle _the vampire_. It's the part I love just as much, perhaps even more so, because he's of my own kind, because he saved me." She crawled back to kneel in front of me, taking my limp hands within hers as she captured my gaze. I couldn't stop the warmth that spread from our joined hands, my mind frantically fighting the urge to close the meager distance between us and claim her lips once more.

"I still love you Carlisle. _All_ of you. And I know you're afraid to say it, because then you'll have to admit the side of you that you hate—but you love me. And you have to let go of those walls that you call control if I am to know you for who you really are; if _your family_ is to know the real you."

For the first time in my immortal life, I couldn't process everything fast enough. She was dead-on. Her keen observations about Edward and me had yet to escape my amazement. The man and the vampire seemed to be in a constant battle within me, the two unable to coexist; I couldn't allow them to, not with my chosen lot in life.

More than that, she knew that I loved her, the reasons for my love becoming clearer with every passing moment in her presence. She really _did_ seem to understand me, despite my unconscious attempts to keep her out. Even in Columbus, when she was sixteen, there was something about her that made me feel uncomfortably transparent. But if she actually did _know_ me now, for what I truly was, for what I had done, I doubted she could ever love me.

I shook my head in complete puzzlement, looking off to the surrounding forest so I could avoid the truth in her piercing stare as I found the words to answer her.

"I'm afraid you don't _quite_ understand, Esme," I stated firmly, my voice deep with authority. "As a doctor, I cannot allow even a moment's loss of control. If I were to allow my instincts to influence my actions, even for an _instant_ with a patient—" I knew that I didn't need to qualify that statement, the implications far more dire than she could possibly know. I needed to find an excuse to either end this conversation or change the subject. Pulling my hands from hers, I stood swiftly, facing away from her once more. I heard her stand behind me, but thankfully, she kept her distance. If she moved to touch me again, I wouldn't have the strength to end this inane discussion; her body was far too tempting.

But then, I felt the warmth of her hand on my back as she moved closer to my side. My resolve weakened as I had feared, but I sucked in a breath, holding on to my last ounce of reason. "Carlisle, listen—"

"_No_, Esme," I cut her off, moving away from her inviting touch. "I've listened long enough." The deep growl underneath my words startled us both, and we fell into an uncomfortable silence once more. The air smelled sweeter as the temperature began to drop, the scent paling in comparison to Esme's tantalizing scent. But even that was nothing to her soft, delicate beauty, both in mind and body; the impending sunset was tediously lackluster next to her magnificent form. I was brought instantaneously from my thoughts at the sight—the sun was close to the horizon, and it would be time to leave for work soon. Had we been discussing this inane topic for so long? I sighed, turning toward her once more.

Her expression nearly dropped me to my knees. Her face was downcast, her entire countenance even more so. I felt a twinge of remorse for having spoken to her so gruffly, immediately opening my mouth to apologize for my thoughtlessness. But she shook her head before I was able to form the words.

"I really _do_ understand, Carlisle." The coldness in her voice cast a nearly physical blow to my chest, the pain echoing throughout my entire being. She kept her eyes carefully averted, looking off into the surrounding forest, whereas I was unable to remove my gaze from her. There was a kind of sorrowful beauty about her in this moment that thoroughly captured my attention. Just as I was starting to comprehend my unexplained captivation, my mind spoke for me, automatically.

"I can't be late for work." Turning, I walked straight for the house to prepare for work, knowing that if I gave her another glance, I wouldn't be able to leave.

* * *

Before leaving the house that evening, I had found Esme waiting for me at the door with my coat and bag. But there was not the familiar joy in her send-off. A wall had been built between us, and her farewell was thick with the pain of our discord. After handing me my things and giving me a chaste peck on the cheek, she somberly walked back to her room. As much as I wished to follow her and resolve the issues, my work was calling, and I had to leave.

Yet even at the hospital, she haunted me. I couldn't help but notice that she was right about my consistent restraint, how…_automatic_ everything was. I remembered my early days of medical school; how I had fought my lethal desires every waking second in order to help my patients. Now, it was barely an afterthought, the ease of my ability to appear human all but entirely suppressing the lust for human blood, the very basis of the creature that I was.

_For once, it was _nice_ to see your other side…that's the _real_ Carlisle._

Stepping into the early morning air, I forced myself to walk the five miles home at a slow, human pace. It had been refreshing to reach the hospital, though my quarrel with Esme still simmered at the back of my mind as I made my rounds. My troubles would not allow themselves to be forgotten entirely.

Esme's resounding truth stung my heart, and I kicked a rock into the forest in frustration, the stone ricocheting off a few trees, sending a flock of birds into the air from their perches nearby. I paused to watch its eventual plummet to the forest floor one hundred feet from me. The rock was so easily taken by the forces of gravity, so easily moved by the momentum transferred from my force.

But not I—_I _had fought against every power that pulled and pushed me until I became an immovable force, seemingly unable to be shaken or changed by any outside influence.

Was I vulnerable enough to allow them to change me, so that I could be what they needed? I was stuck between two worlds: I acted human, but wasn't. I was a vampire, but didn't act as such, even while hunting. How could I reconcile the two men within me while retaining the measure of control over my baser instincts that I had struggled to attain? I knew deep down that I loved Esme, but could I love her without giving over fully to the monster within?

I sighed as I walked into the clearing that made up the front yard of my home. Stopping to breathe in the air around me, it suddenly dawned on me that almost every trace of Edward's scent was now gone. I had driven him away with my inability to empathize with his feelings, and despite his promise to return, I couldn't help but fear that I would never see him again.

The thought of what I had done to my son made me realize that I had a lot to deal with, and I couldn't do it alone. I didn't _need_ to do it alone. Walking across the lawn in resolution, I did a quick scan of the house, searching for Esme. I could hear her downstairs, sliding a book back into its place on the bookshelf.

Swiftly entering the house, I let the door close lightly behind me. Esme remained imperceptibly motionless and silent as I removed my coat, so I went to put my bag beside my desk, as I always did.

Her scent was strong at the door of my study, and I paused for a moment, allowing myself to become immersed in the succulent aroma. I opened the door to step inside and ask Esme's forgiveness, thoroughly prepared to beg if necessary.

She was standing with her back to me, her fingers tracing lightly over the spines of the books on the shelves of the south wall. Though she had organized them herself, she seemed to be memorizing the location of each title. I decided to tread lightly, praying that she wasn't upset, and greeted her as normal.

"Good morning, Esme." Unfortunately, my voice was not as optimistic as I had hoped.

She didn't answer. I placed my bag in its usual spot and took a seat on the edge of my desk, a fitting location for the state of my emotions. After a few minutes of uneasy quiet, I decided to address her again. "Esme?"

She followed the shelves to the east wall, permitting me to catch the expression on her profile—guarded and taut, her eyes cold and hard. I felt my stomach clench in pain at her appearance, causing me to react immediately.

"Esme, I am so dreadfully sorry for everything I said. You were entirely right about me, and I—" She cut me off when she met my gaze with a sharp look, her beautiful features remaining unflinchingly composed as she spoke.

"I need to go hunting."

"What?" It was an automatic response, my mouth forming the word before my mind could fully comprehend her assertion. Her statement utterly confused me—it seemed entirely uncharacteristic for her to avoid an issue, and I was surprisingly hurt by her nonchalance at my remorse.

"I need to go hunting," she repeated at an unnecessarily slow pace, her voice malicious, and filled with irritation. My eyes blinked a few times in sheer bafflement, and I couldn't seem to pull my reply together quickly enough. Her eyes narrowed further. "Now."

I vehemently shook my head. "No, Esme. I believe we have something to settle before moving on."

Her upper lip twitched, as if she was holding back a sneer, yet her voice softened a bit. "We've got absolutely nothing to settle, and I'm incredibly thirsty. I need you to take me hunting."

My hand involuntarily came up to pinch the bridge of my nose as I felt my impatience rising. She was so interminably stubborn.

"No, Esme, I won't. The last thing either of us needs is an excuse to avoid this obvious problem. Please, just sit down and listen to me—"

"_I've_ listened long enough," she mocked my earlier words, her voice deepening as she moved to the door. I moved to grab her arm as she opened the door, but she whipped around as I reached for her, slapping my hand away and glaring at me.

"And I _will_ go hunting. With _or_ without you."

In a flash, she was gone, the front door slamming less than a second later. I stood there with my eyes wide in shock for a brief moment before willing myself into action and chasing after her.

Esme's trail led in the usual direction, to the north and east, away from town. Perhaps she really _did_ need to hunt, but was her hunger so acute that she couldn't wait until we sorted things out? After all, she had hunted only last week. And storming out to hunt without me in such a way—that was absolutely against the rules, and she knew it. As a newborn, she inescapably gave over to her instincts completely when she hunted—heaven forbid she should come across a human in such a state.

I didn't have far to go before I found her, leaning against a tree, apparently waiting for me. "Esme," I stated sharply, prepared to give her a piece of my mind, but she waved me off again.

Her lips were pressed into a thin line as she tugged obsessively with her hair, her tone hard and sarcastic as she spoke. "There's a herd of deer not far away. I figured I would wait for you, so we could have breakfast together." She turned and took off before I could answer, not that I would have known what to say. I followed quickly, noting how she had kept a slow pace so that I could catch up.

We ran side-by-side as we approached the deer, the alluring fragrance of the pulsing life force within the animals invading every one of my senses. I pushed it aside, quickly scanning beyond the herd to check for any sign of human life. Finding none, I brought my attention back to Esme, whose wide, blackened eyes and free, graceful movements indicated her incoherent condition. She was now entirely a predator, the bloodlust controlling her every thought and sense.

She flew ahead of me, jumping into the herd of deer before they had time to raise their heads from their grazing. I appraised the herd quickly and upon seeing two bucks, raced after the larger one, snapping the animal's neck before sinking my teeth in and draining it. I drank quickly, feeling the warm liquid energizing my body as a heady feeling rushed over me.

I was about to stand when I found myself face down suddenly, a heavy weight on my back pinning me to the earth. I knew the feel and scent of the body above me almost better than my own.

"Esme, what are you doing?"

She was sitting on my back, my arms effectively pinned beneath her legs as she straddled me. As she ran her hands up my back and massaged my head lightly, she leaned down to whisper in my ear. Her hair fell around our faces, allowing me to fully inhale her rich scent.

"You said you wanted to settle things," her voice wasn't as cold as it had been, but it still held an incongruous bitterness. "So, I'm settling them."

She continued to surprise me, this newfound aggression in her demeanor making me almost fearful of her next move. I struggled against her pressing weight, fighting the instinct to use as much force as necessary to remove her— but I didn't wish to harm her. Just then, a curtain of black came into view, moving from above and obscuring my vision. I felt the soft, woven texture of the fabric as it wrapped around my head, tugging lightly over my eyes.

Esme had _blindfolded_ me? What was she up to?

I realized that, in my confusion, I had ceased to struggle, yet Esme had not moved from her position above me. I felt her lips on the back of my head, her hands lightly combing through my hair as she hushed me.

"It's all right, Carlisle. I won't attack you again." Her voice was her own, the warm softness melting my anxiety away. But I wasn't entirely convinced, the defensive instinct far too strong to be overruled.

"Then what is this about?" I demanded.

She released a heavy sigh, sounding quite weary. "I want you to hunt without sight."

"Hunt without sight?" I replied incredulously. "Esme, you said you were settling things. What is this going to fix?"

"It's going to fix _you_, Carlisle. _You_ are the issue here." I tried to free my hands so that I could remove the blindfold and look into her eyes, hoping to reason with her. But she held fast, continuing. "You've completely lost touch with who you are. I've been thinking about it all day, and I've concluded that you're afraid to give over to what the vampire within truthfully wants."

I attempted to reason with her. "Esme, try to understand—"

"Stop telling me that I need to understand when _I already do_," she growled. We both fell silent for a moment, my mind racing ahead of her to discern where she was going with this. Supposedly, she wanted me to give over to my instincts, as she always did; let my senses do the work for me. However, I didn't think that would be possible after two hundred years. "I've watched you hunt—sizing up your prey. You pick out the one that is the strongest, most deserving. You're even sympathetic to your food."

She laughed a little at her own joke, but I could not join her even if I wanted to. A knot began to form in the pit of my stomach as I became fully aware of her profound perceptiveness. My mind pieced together her words and her comments from our earlier conversation, and I realized, for the first time, that the hyper-control over my instincts might not be such a good thing. I had sacrificed my capability to identify with my own kind; sacrificed any potential for a deeper relationship with them in favor of serving humans.

It was worth it, to be sure; every life I had saved because of my heightened skill as a doctor made it a priceless loss. But it was also I alone who had brought Edward and Esme into this life, and they had become far more precious to me than anything else in this world. I would do anything for them, yet I consistently chose my responsibilities to my work over their best interests.

"All right. I'll try" I conceded. For Esme, for Edward, and for myself, I would try.

Esme abruptly leapt from me, freeing my arms as I quickly pushed myself up. The motion was easier than I had anticipated, and I felt an odd sense of vertigo without the ability to observe my surroundings. Keeping my hands carefully glued to my sides, I found myself clenching my fists in anxiety. Suddenly, I heard Esme move beside me, the air around her sweeping like waves as she reached out to grab one of my hands, prying open the stiff digits until she could hold it within hers.

"I'll be right here. You can trust me."

I wanted to tell her that it wasn't _her_ I didn't trust, but rather _myself_. But instead, I settled for nodding, moving a cautious step forward and reaching out with my other senses for any objects that might be in my path. Esme stayed close by my side, whispering words of encouragement and keeping a comforting hand on my back as I walked with my free arm outstretched. It wasn't as difficult as I thought; I could actually _sense_ the trees around me in an odd way. But with each successive step, it became easier and easier to trust that sense and move more confidently through the dense woods.

I first felt it as an annoying tugging at the back of my mind—something long forgotten, but willing itself to the forefront of my memory. I could smell the deer again, but it was different this time: I felt compelled to focus solely on that delicious scent.

A memory flashed through my mind at the same moment as the sensation hit me full-force. I was suddenly in the filthy streets of London again, wiping the molded and rotten potato skins from my clothes as I ran with terrified haste, the stench of the sewers masking the blood that I knew I would lust after. I was running to the hills, to the forests, anywhere that I might safely hide myself from my former kind. I had just become what I had loathed my entire twenty-three years, the self-hatred permeating throughout me even as my throat burned with thirst. Then, I caught the most tantalizing scent I had ever experienced, and my mouth flooded with venom.

Just like that first night as a vampire, I swallowed thickly, intensely aware of the forest I was in, but somehow, inexplicably, my conscious was extended beyond the forest. I felt as though I was flying, Esme's touch from behind the only thing keeping me grounded. I wanted to fight the feeling of pure bloodlust, hating myself for loving it. It was reaching its arms out, begging me to allow its seductive caress to drag me within myself and to the point of no return.

"Let it go, Carlisle," Esme's voice came from beside me, sounding more and more distant, though a part of me knew of her close proximity.

And finally, I did. I was falling, flying, at last freed from all constraints as I inhaled deeply, allowing the smooth scent of blood to invade every fiber of my being. My thoughts became blissfully simplified, every idea condensed and focused on the animals I was quickly approaching. Trees were nothing. Air was nothing. _Kill and drink._

I started to run faster, leaping through the trees after my intended meal, my senses picking through the herd of deer as they fled from my approach. _There it was. _The best scent of them all.

I pounced, ripping into the animal's throat as it struggled uselessly beneath my steely grasp, savoring each succulent drop of blood until there was no more. Sated at last, I dropped the carcass, whipping around and hissing as I smelled another of my kind approach my kill. It wasn't just any vampire, though—it was a female; I could detect her sweet arousal from where I stood. She wanted me—and I wanted _her_.

Pouncing towards her, my body automatically judged the distance to the woman as I collided with her soft form, taking her to the ground easily and attacking her throat with my teeth. I heard her moan in surrender, her scent intensifying and feeding my own needs, but unexpectedly, her hands came to my shoulders, pushing me away.

"No," she gasped, "not like this." I growled in protest, feeling the collar of her shirt in my way and brusquely pushing it aside, sucking on the exposed skin before biting into it. She was _mine_, and I would have her. Her delicate hands moved to my head, sliding upwards. Suddenly, I could see her—and she was magnificent. _I would make her my mate. _

I felt a purr begin deep within my chest as my eyes clouded over with lust, casting a subtle glow around her feminine form. I moved to rip the thin cotton from her body, my nails easily ripping through the cloth on her sides.

"Carlisle, _no_!" I was suddenly flying through the air, branches breaking in my trajectory as I fell to the ground some fifty yards away.

_Carlisle_. That was my name.

I lay staring at the canopy of leaves above me; the view was becoming familiar as my memories and coherent thought returned to me slowly. Doctor_ Carlisle Cullen._ Instantly, I was in a blind panic to find Esme; although confused by my lack of rationale, I stood quickly, feeling an overwhelming urge to make sure she was all right.

She was standing beside me before I had stood, however, appearing unharmed despite my attack. In fact, she was beaming brightly, any trace of her previous anger completely vanished and replaced by a clear look of pride. I, however, felt absolutely sick at the recollection of my wild actions. Unable to think of a proper apology at that moment, I chose to look back at my recent quarry instead. But at the sight, my heart fell.

It was a fawn.

* * *

_If you're interested, check out the forum for this story on Twilighted; it's relatively new, but it'd be great to get some fun things going with my little clique of readers! The link is in my profile.  
_


	10. Instinct

_Twilight and Carlisle are property of Stephenie Meyer, all rights reserved therein. I have but artistic license._

_Many thanks to locqua, who has found time to beta despite her insane schedule. She is the dictionary's definition of fabulous: "So remarkable as to elicit disbelief."_

_Thank you to all who are reading this instead of drooling over their recently-purchased copies of the _Twilight _DVD. I, personally, will be especially cherishing the few-and-far-between Carlisle scenes._ _And squining shamelessly, I might add. Team Carlisle, all the way!  
_

_Best of luck to Peter Facinelli in _New Moon. _I hope and pray that they leave the bulk of chapter two in the film!_

_"Enough of this jabbering!" I hear you say. All right then, let us on with the tale..._

* * *

_A fawn_. A helpless, pure infant.

I approached the carcass slowly, the fixed, barren stare of the young beast both convicting and intensely terrifying. Time seemed to stand still as my breathing halted, the deeper connotations behind my recent kill ripping through me, mind and body.

I had killed an innocent. But more than that was the fact that, despite my centuries of careful control, I somehow still possessed the capability of allowing my baser instincts their iniquitous will. I felt thoroughly ill as I knelt beside the lifeless fawn, grief gripping my chest in a sinister vice.

But more than the blameless life I had taken was the fact that I had viciously and boorishly attacked Esme with every licentious intention imaginable. Not only had she endured the brutal assaults of her husband as a human, but now she had just been subjected to the most disgusting, profligate actions of someone she sincerely trusted. She must have been absolutely terrified.

I looked to her quickly, expecting to see nothing but raw hatred etched on every one of her features. But it wasn't there. Leaping from the ground, I raced over to her, performing a quick visual examination before feeling lightly along her limbs for any lacerations.

"Are you all right, Esme? Are you hurt at all?"

My eyes continued scanning her form, praying to God that I hadn't harmed her in my feral state.

"I'm just fine, Carlisle." Her voice was calm, but I wasn't convinced. How had I allowed myself to be so reckless? She was an innocent, also, and I had hurt her. There was no way she could have known what _that side_ of me was capable of. "Carlisle?"

I had been so busy trying to determine her condition that I didn't notice her move closer to me. I froze, walking slowly backwards until there was ten feet between us. Only then did I have the courage to look into her eyes. Her expression was one of immense confusion, a hint of sadness lingering behind her eyes.

"I am so inestimably sorry, Esme. My actions were inexcusable, and I cannot convey how absolutely disgusted I am with my carelessness."

"Carlisle, don't you _dare_." I was cut off before I could utter another word, my mouth snapping shut at her heated tone. It was my turn to be confused. She was no more than a foot from me in half of a second, lifting herself up on her toes as she held my head tightly in her hands in an attempt to make our heights as even as possible. "You are a good man, and I will not allow you to beat yourself up over this."

I was incredulous at her bold confidence, the sharp timbre of her voice causing an involuntary shudder to course through my body. Had she somehow forgotten what I had done to her? "But after everything you went through as a human with your husband—you must be absolutely terrified of me."

A kind of realization seemed to dawn in her eyes, a soft, faint glow mesmerizing me even as she released me from her enchanting gaze. She relaxed her grip, sinking back down to her normal height, her eyes now level with my chest as she traced a pattern on my shirt. Only then did I realize it was soaked with blood—_the blood of the fawn_. I inhaled sharply as a new wave of revulsion filtered through me at the thought of what I had done.

"I _was _afraid," Esme admitted, her tranquil voice a stark contrast to its previously exasperated tone. "I was afraid I would see Charles hovering over me, about to take me against my will as he had so many times." I tensed at her admission, starting to move away again to make her more comfortable. But she brought her hands to my arms, holding me in place as she looked up at me from beneath her lashes. "But there was no fear as I looked into your eyes, black as they were." She brought a hand up to trace my cheekbone, the moment so entirely reminiscent of the scene when she had first awakened into this life. "It was just so _natural_. I wasn't afraid of you at all. It just felt so…right."

My mind was swimming with this new information. Was it possible that her mind had been able to somehow override her human experiences and the learned responses acquired from them? I thought back to the various lectures I had attended on human psychology, but none of them seemed to apply here. Our minds were so vastly different from humans' in their processes; it would make sense for them to handle trauma more effectively as well. I doubted any human mind would be able to manage the type of horror so many of our kind came across on a daily basis.

I looked deeply into Esme's eyes, searching for any sign of dishonesty in her claim. "So you are completely unharmed, then?"

A smile lit her face as she nodded, but I could not rejoice at her assurance. In my eyes, I had still committed an inexcusable crime, and I needed to reinforce my defenses to ensure it was not repeated.

"Carlisle," Esme's frustrated voice brought me from my thoughts. "You have nothing to be upset about."

I let out a humorless laugh at her blatant disregard of my offense, looking to the decaying fawn's carcass in utter despair. "Nothing, indeed?"

She gripped my arms tighter, shaking me lightly to emphasize her words. "You're reading far too much into this. Just because you killed a young deer doesn't mean you're going to kill the next patient that walks into your waiting room." I looked at her, pain rippling through me at the very idea of such an event. Could she not understand how many steps backwards I had just taken in my carefully mastered control?

"If I'm not mistaken," she continued, "_you_ were the first vampire to feed solely from animals, to refuse human prey."

"Not the first," I gently corrected. Others had attempted this way of life, but few had successfully maintained it. Only in abstaining from human blood from the very beginning had I been able to overcome the strong lure. Nevertheless, she was hedging the issue. "But you're changing the subject."

She brought one hand to my shoulder, shaking her head vehemently. "No, I'm not. You took the most depraved desire of our kind, the very center of who we are, and you made it almost honorable. How can you be ashamed of that?"

"It's not just the fawn, Esme, it's the principle of the matter—and that's not the only thing I'm ashamed of." I looked her in the eyes, reminding her of the second abominable act I had committed. She seemed to take it the wrong way, however. Her expression fell as she moved away from me, my body instantly missing her touch.

"You're ashamed of loving me?"

My eyes widened—she had me trapped. She had mistaken me, finding a meaning in my words that I hadn't even considered could be there. Yet I had a sneaking suspicion that she asked it _purposefully_, wanting me to openly express my feelings; the true reason behind why she had read so erroneously into my statement. Perhaps Esme was trying to force my hand in this—if I told her _no_, I would be admitting that I loved her, which I did; but there was still fear behind that truth. My love for her seemed to have awakened things in me that I had all but forgotten, and I wasn't ready to face them again, not after what had just happened. I wasn't ready for whatever changes they might bring.

I wanted to tell her more than anything, to express my feelings once and for all. But would it be fair to her, knowing so little of me as she did? Her mind might change once she knew more about my past. And there was Edward to consider as well—how might such an admission affect him? I opened my mouth to speak; the three, heavy words that would inevitably change my life forever waited impatiently to make themselves known.

"I'm ashamed of having treated you with such disrespect." I blinked in shock at having spoken so automatically. True as it was, that wasn't what I had intended to say. But yet again, it seemed that I was unable to adequately speak what my heart and mind already knew. I gave her a pleading look, willing her to understand my indirect answer.

Her eyes softened as the silence between us became oddly comfortable, all sense of time lost as our gazes locked again. The words of our unspoken conversation were entirely untranslatable into any language on this earth, but this I could tell: she really _did_ understand, more than I had realized. But how could she know?

"You didn't see the love in your eyes, even as you lost control." She smiled brightly, the intense brilliance forcing me to look away. And just like that, the spell was broken. I suddenly became aware of the world around us once more: I noticed how close she was to me; how much lower the sun was in the sky. Though I did not have to work that evening, I felt our time here was coming to a close as evening drew near. More than that, I wanted to close this subject until I could process it further.

"I think we should head home now, if you are ready." With all that had happened since leaving the house, I had completely forgotten that it had been _her_ request to go hunting.

As if reading my thoughts, her head dropped slightly and she averted her gaze. "I didn't really _need_ to hunt."

"I thought as much." I nodded knowingly, smiling at her bashfulness and offering her my arm as we turned toward home.

We walked home at a leisurely pace, Esme's arm slung casually through mine. We continued our discussion carefully, and I couldn't help but reveal what I had thought about at the hospital the previous evening.

"You were entirely correct about me, Esme. I've worked so hard to deny the desires of the vampire within me that I've lost touch with what I've become, with who I truly am." I paused to allow her response, but she merely leaned her head against my shoulder, maintaining an encouraging silence. "I wish I could allow you to see what it was like for me as a newborn, experiencing all these new, terrifying instincts, coming from the background that I did, but—" _I don't want you to hate me,_ I completed my thought inwardly.

"It's not quite so bad as you think, Carlisle," Esme softly assured me as we walked at a leisurely pace across the front yard. "Besides, you've already given into your instincts with me—don't you remember our time here on the lawn yesterday?" I did, indeed. And it was with shame that I nodded my affirmation.

I felt her smile against my arm, lightly pressing her lips against the fabric of my sleeve.

"Don't be ashamed of your reaction, Carlisle. I know it was sudden and unexpected, but it wasn't a bad thing. _Love_ is not a bad thing." We were silent for a moment, the pause giving me time to find a weakness in her argument.

Her statement made no sense. She had mistaken my body's response for _love_? I thought back to the previous afternoon, remembering the last thought before my insensible assault. I had realized, fully and for the first time, that I loved her; but there was no connection between that thought and my subsequent actions…was there? Had that thought somehow sparked some long-lost, depraved lust within me? No. It could not have.

I sighed in frustration. "Esme, I _attacked_ you. I hardly think that can be construed as any kind of affection." Her logic in this matter was entirely confusing to me. There was much she did not understand about our natures as vampires; and whether it was caused by being a newborn or something else entirely, she needed to be set straight about it.

"I'm not talking about _affection_," she asserted, "I'm talking about _love_ again_._" And with that, she was suddenly in front of me, stopping me in my tracks as she glared up at me. "And don't you _dare_ patronize me."

Despite the coldness of her demand, I felt quite warm as her graceful figure blocked me not twenty feet from the front door. She seemed entirely unwilling to let me move past this issue in any manner of speaking, the physical representation of her determination making my heart swell with the intense love I felt for her. She truly wanted to help me face this; but did she fully understand the repercussions if I did? Did _I_ fully understand them? More than anything, I knew I did not _want_ to know what might happen if I continued in this pursuit. She didn't give me much time to ponder this, however, before continuing her impassioned tirade.

"I _know_ what I saw in your eyes at that moment, Carlisle—it was _love_. And there are a few things about love that you can never learn by reading any of your precious books." Though she was not touching me, I had an odd sense that she had me in a strangle-hold, our eyes locked in a tight embrace. "First, it's an instinct. Romantic love is hardly ever an act of the will. I know I didn't _try_ to fall in love with you in Columbus. It just…happened." She took up one of my hands in her own, an action I associated with her uncertainty; however, the look in her eyes was anything but.

"But it is so much more than just an _instinct_. It becomes your whole world—the very reason why you do things, the lens through which you see simply everything. It's like a gateway to all things wonderful in the world_,_ Carlisle. And yet you treat it like some dangerous blindfold, locking it away. You're sacrificing so much, and you don't even know it."

I was finally able to pull myself from her hypnotic stare, glancing at the trees around me in sheer frustration. She was only partially right this time. I had surrendered much to become the doctor that I was, but not once did I feel that I had _sacrificed_ anything; never had I felt bitter or angry at what I was giving up. After all, how could rejecting the evil desires of your nature be a bad thing in any regard? "I don't understand your reasoning, Esme. _What_, precisely, am I missing?"

She placed her free hand on my cheek, turning my face toward her again with a gentle pressure. Her eyes were sad, and I felt a stab of regret at having made them that way.

"Everything, Carlisle." I knew my expression was one of complete and utter defeat, as it was all I could feel. There was no solution to this problem. I had given all that I was to gain the opportunity to work among men as one of their own kind. But apparently, I could not have both worlds. "I know you _have _love—you wouldn't be so entirely compassionate and loving if you didn't. But you only allow it to flow to others. You never allow yourself to _experience_ it fully."

I felt almost unbearably stressed, unable to understand what she meant by all this. She was giving me so much information, but I had no idea how to use it. "What do you want from me, Esme? What do you expect me to do?"

She moved away from me again, looking distantly at the grass and standing quietly in contemplation. After several minutes, she finally spoke, keeping her gaze on the ground.

"Would it be too much for me to ask that you let me love you?" I raised an eyebrow, hesitant to agree to anything with such ambiguous implications. "Oh, no," she quickly amended, "not necessarily like _that_. I just mean…" she trailed off, stuttering in her attempt to clarify.

I smiled in relief, raising a hand to calm her flustered ramblings. What would I say to her? How could I be honest without divulging more than I was comfortable with? It was never an issue with Edward, and I was at a loss. After only a brief moment of uneasy silence, I decided on my answer.

"I can't promise I'll be very good at it," I explained, "but I will _try_."

I could practically see the excitement race through her at my declaration, every inch of her skin glowing from within. Esme was quite visibly fighting to refrain from throwing herself at me, and I was grateful for her self-control. With all that had happened today, I was not certain I could handle another physical assault. She settled for reaching for my hand as I led her inside the house.

"Thank you, Carlisle."

As we went to our separate rooms to clean up, I was shocked at my appearance—covered with blood, dirt, and grime, I looked like the vampires my father and I had hunted, the very embodiment of the evil creature I had, at first, believed myself to be. With shaking fingers, I quickly changed my clothes and wiped myself down, feeling more comfortable with myself once I was properly composed.

I was done long before Esme, hearing the sound of the water splashing around her as she bathed in the bathroom at the back of the house. My mind instantly began imagining the enthralling scene—Esme carefully and meticulously washing away the caked on dirt and blood. How I wished I could be her hands, gently caressing her body as the soap added a glistening, sweat-like sheen to her soft, alabaster skin.

I shook myself from my daydream, silently berating myself for such debased envisaging. Never before had I been so prone to lecherous meditation, nor to such frequent self-deprecation. Turning hastily, I walked with determination into the sitting room, hoping for something to distract me from further dishonorable notions. Edward's piano caught my eye immediately, and the familiar stab of emptiness immediately filled my chest as I sat down on the bench. The sun was setting on yet another day without my son, despite his promises to return, and not even the recent developments in my relationship with Esme had softened the ache of his absence. I missed his company, his playing; but most of all, I missed _him_.

Strangely, I was almost thankful that he had not been forced to witness the train of thought that had been plaguing my mind of late. If he harbored distaste for Esme before, he would be set and bound to _loathe_ her now. However, it turned out that he _was_ wrong in the way he viewed her—Esme certainly hadn't replaced him, anymore than a wife could ever replace a son.

As I placed my hands on the keys, I was suddenly hit with the full force of my latest thought. Would it be ridiculous for a vampire, who was beyond the ephemeral restraints of law and societal duty, to consider…_marriage_ to another?

_Yes,_ I resolutely decided. My hands began to play of their own accord as I processed the thought, my mind distantly registering the harmonic progression of the first piece from Mendelssohn's_Lieder ohne Worte__._ It was among the first works that I had learned in my musical studies in Europe, my instructor amazed at my ability to play so effortlessly and precisely.

But neither the memory nor the flowing melody could drown out my agitated thoughts at my sudden epiphany. It would be preposterous for me to even consider something so outrageously absurd. I needed to think reasonably about this. I had only known Esme for a little under a month, and though I knew I loved her deeply, it was much too soon. And there was Edward's opinion to consider. He was more of family to me than Esme was. The first song ended, and I quickly began the second, memory serving me without fail as I played every note and chord with absolute perfection.

I heard Esme enter the room after the first motif, but continued playing, looking over my shoulder to acknowledge her presence. She stood by the door in a light green gingham dress, hair still damp, her lips forming a peaceful smile. I nodded my head toward the bench in an invitation to sit, my fingers never ceasing their continuous motions on the keys. Graceful step by graceful step she moved across the darkened room until she sat down beside me with an even wider grin, watching the movements of my hands.

"I didn't know you played the piano." Her gentle, melodious voice was quiet, kept carefully below the sounds of the piano.

"I spent a while in my earlier years as a vampire experimenting with all areas of study, learning as much as I could in as many subjects as possible—including music." I felt her gaze on me now, and was compelled to meet it. I didn't understand the look on her face—it was almost a sense of awe mixed with a bit of sadness, combined with a look of pure joy. Before I could question her about it, she turned her attention back to the keys, and I noticed that the song was coming to a conclusion. I somehow understood the message in her reaction: it was best to let the mysterious expression go unnamed for now. With a concluding, sustained chord, the song was over, and Esme sighed heavily.

"We'll have to ask Edward to play that when he comes home. I know he would play it just as beautifully. He has a wonderful talent." Her smile was gone now as I looked over at her. Did she blame herself for Edward's departure? Bringing a hand up, she ran it lightly across the tops of the ivory keys.

"I want to say thank you, Carlisle." Her ability to unexpectedly change direction in a conversation was becoming dizzying, but I refrained from commenting on it.

"For what?" I queried, once again curious to see where she was going with this. She turned slightly on the bench so that she was facing me more fully, my hands suddenly within the warmth of hers again. I released an involuntary sigh at the contact.

"For truly opening up and letting me in today. You can't possibly understand how much that meant—_means_ to me."

I nodded, looking at our joined hands and avoiding her piercing stare. I was startled by how much I really _did_ trust her, being able to see her as an equal, almost even more so than Edward. But as for opening up to her…

Being forthright was never exactly an _option_ with Edward, as it was with Esme. I was able to choose what I shared with her, how much she could know about me. But those days were swiftly coming to a close. I knew that making the choice to let her in completely—to love her, and let her love me in return—would be like reconciling my soul and body. The prospect was both terrifying and completely thrilling. But I had to try. For Esme, I had to try.

"I'm afraid I wasn't entirely open with you," I began, grasping her hands tighter and willing myself to look into her eyes. Even after only a month, the deep crimson had begun to fade, her eyes now almost a rusty hue. But they also held a look of immense expectancy, as though she already knew I was about to divulge a great secret. Swallowing reflexively, my throat suddenly feeling parched, I closed my eyes tightly, fighting through the rising anxiety, speaking the words that had so long been held captive within me.

"I love you, Esme."

Silence.

I didn't know how, precisely, I had expected her to react. I hadn't thought that far ahead. But I knew that if I didn't tell her at that moment, I never would have been able to. However, I was entirely unprepared for the deafening silence that followed. My anxiety was transformed into sheer panic with each passing, entirely quiet moment. Why hadn't she said anything yet?

It was at that moment my hands began to shake—no, it was not mine, but _hers_ that were shaking. My eyes snapped open to observe the movement, following her arms upwards until I was able to survey her entire form. Her eyes were close tightly as well, head hanging down as her shoulders shook uncontrollably. Was she—_crying_? I had made her upset in my confession? I brought a hand from hers and pressed my fingers beneath her chin, lifting her head so she would look at me, thoroughly prepared to apologize for having upset her. Her eyes opened quickly, bright and beaming with joy as her mouth opened in a glorious smile. So she was happy, then?

Before I could make sense of anything that was happening, she was sobbing, or perhaps laughing, into my chest, her arms wrapped tightly around me. Her embrace was careful, but secure, and I allowed myself to revel in it, wrapping my arms around her and returning her hold with equal feeling. After several minutes, I gave up trying to discern the manner of her cries, pressing light kisses to the top of her head every so often. It seemed that the more I knew Esme, the less I could understand her. But it was when her sobs turned into contented sighs, her hands softly stroking my back that I was able to truly know what was in her mind.

More than that was the realization that every bit of previous anxiety was gone from within me. I felt completely at peace as I held Esme in my arms, entirely content. She knew now, and it had made her happy. Despite the fact that I had no idea what would happen from here on, I was not concerned. And I knew that I ought to be upset at my lack of apprehension, but I could not make myself so.

Esme began placing light kisses across my chest, holding her lips above my heart to whisper.

"I love you, too." She held me tighter, inhaling deeply before releasing it in a breathy sigh that caused every rambling thought of what might be to disappear. Somehow in the past ten minutes, our bodies had become entwined. Esme was sitting across my lap, cradled comfortably in my arms. My thoughts were quickly becoming increasingly less honorable, and I forced myself to concentrate.

"You know," she began, snuggling closer to me. "There _is_ a bed in my room."

I felt every cell in my body freeze in understanding as soon as the words were out of her mouth. Was Esme…propositioning me? The impure thoughts returned, and I audibly groaned, fighting a quickly-losing battle in my mind. My body wanted nothing more than to agree with her, sweep her into my arms and show her how much I truly did care for her. But the realistic part of me knew it was too soon—I wasn't ready for that big of a leap so shortly after my own feelings had finally been expressed.

"No, Esme," I heard myself say coldly, the less noble part of my mind growling in protest as I was barely able to grate the words through my teeth. She pulled back, staying where she was in my lap as she caught my gaze. I could tell the rejection cut her deeply, unmasked pain clear in her saddened eyes.

"I'm sorry I suggested it, then." Her face twisted in shame, and she averted her gaze, bringing her hands to rest in her lap as she fixed her stare on the piano. I hadn't meant to hurt her, but she must have been able to understand why I couldn't agree to that right now—I just wasn't ready.

But then, I suddenly thought of a way to appease her and soothe the unintentional injury of my refusal.

"I suppose I should have been more specific." I stated, taking one of her hands in a comforting gesture, but lacing my fingers through hers intimately. "What I meant to say was…not _yet_."

Her gaze quickly snapped back to meet mine, and she grinned widely, gazing upon our joined hands and nodding slightly. "I understand." She gave my hand a gentle squeeze, looking up at me through her lashes, her eyes darting briefly to my lips before returning to meet mine with increased intensity. I knew what she wanted, and she was waiting for me to make the first move. She _did_ understand.

And this time, I could grant her request.

"May I kiss you, Esme?"

Her magnificent features were lit with joy, but she merely nodded in reply, closing her eyes and remaining still, a peaceful smile on her face. Despite all that had occurred in the woods this afternoon, she still trusted me. There was much she still did not know about me, and whether or not she would love me once she knew remained to be seen. But right now, all I could think about was her soft, full lips, and how much mine longed to touch them.

I took my time, taking her head gently in my hands before leaning forward inch by torturous inch, maintaining that I was still in complete control of my actions. Pausing a breath away from her mouth, I tested myself, inhaling her delicious, sweet scent and allowing its succulent perfume to suffuse every ounce of my being. But there was no depraved desire lurking just beneath the surface of my consciousness this time, no sense of being on the edge of losing even a fragment of my cognizance.

Feeling no movement from Esme, I allowed my eyes to close in resignation and pressed my lips softly to hers. She was hesitant, and I nearly took it to mean that she did not entirely trust me after this afternoon's encounter, not that I would have blamed her. But I then noticed how she was moving with almost measured slowness against my mouth, gradually increasing her response and pressure. Whether it was for her benefit or mine seemed irrelevant, but I couldn't help but wonder at her reasoning.

Time and space became inconsequential once again. The only thing that mattered was the mutual love between us, the outward expression of which becoming the world in which we existed. I loved her, and, though she no doubt knew it long before I ever did, we had both finally heard it straight from my own heart. I could feel myself letting go again, but there was no accompanying fear, no terrifying, uncontrollable lust clawing at my rational thought. This time, it was love that held me captive, and it was Esme who held and controlled that love.

I allowed my hands to glide down her neck and shoulders, sliding them beneath her arms to embrace and hold her tighter to me. She followed suit, her hands suddenly gripping my shoulders tightly as she situated herself more conveniently in my lap, kneeling on the bench on either side of me. It was not so unlike the position we had been in the previous afternoon in the sunlight; the very memory made me feel warmer, and I moaned as I felt her mouth open against mine in an invitation. I proceeded slowly, remaining cautious despite the encouraging results thus far, eventually matching my lips to hers as she waited patiently.

I was beyond that which I had been comfortable with again, yet I was still aware of everything; whereas everything had been simplified and focused before, it was as though my senses had been entirely unleashed, allowing me to experience everything to its fullest measure—every strand of Esme's soft curls as they flowed over my hands on her back, the way the air around us felt lighter and warmer, to the small purring noises she made with each caress of my hands across her back. Her honeyed scent and taste invaded my senses as our tongues slowly savored and explored each other's mouths. It was all so familiar, and yet so new. She had been right—I hadbeen missing _everything._ Now, I wanted more.

But then I heard the footsteps.

Esme froze at my sudden inaction, pulling away to look at me in confusion mere moments before a deep, velvet voice broke through the darkness behind me.

"Well, this isn't exactly the prodigal homecoming I was anticipating."

* * *


	11. Prodigal

_I own neither Twilight nor Carlisle. I don't have the money. I own only my books, my DVD, and my computer, with which I write my bits of chimerical indulgence and read delightful pieces of news about Peter Facinelli. Did you know that, when he got the role for _Twilight_, he recognized that Carlisle was originally British, but didn't use an accent because "he thinks Carlisle would have adapted to his surroundings and dropped the accent to avoid attention." I'm so glad we're on the same brainwave, Peter! _

_Sorry for the ridiculously late posting, folks. Life has been out-of-control-insane. I was on some medication for a few weeks that made me unable to think straight, let alone write. But I made sure to deprive myself of sleep to bring you your Carlisle fix, and/or Edward angst._

_This chapter is dedicated to CareBehrsGem for making sure this isn't complete crap--I see your crystal heart, and it's little and broken, but still good. Yeah, still good.  
Special shout-out to hopesallthings. You're in my thoughts, always._

_And, to you, my faithful readers, who are now too numerous to mention (*squine*): Thanks for sticking with me, and reading and reviewing. It is so awesome to hear your reactions to everything._

Now, when last we left our happy couple at the end of Chapter 10:_  
_

_Her honeyed scent and taste invaded my senses as our tongues slowly savored and explored each other's mouths. It was all so familiar, and yet so new. She had been right—I had__been missing __everything.__ Now, I wanted more._

_But then I heard the footsteps._

_Esme froze at my sudden inaction, pulling away to look at me in confusion mere moments before a dark, velvet voice broke through the darkness behind me._

"_Well, this isn't exactly the prodigal homecoming I was anticipating."_

* * *

Had the all-too familiar voice been somehow forgotten and foreign, I would have known his scent anywhere—earth and rain, lightning and flowering meadows, interwoven with the slightest trace of my own—

"_Edward_," Esme gasped, looking over my shoulder, her face a mask of utter shock. Her stunned eyes met mine briefly, and I could almost see my own thoughts reflected back at me. I could imagine how this contretemps appeared to Edward, as Esme was held so indecently against me, both of our appearances disheveled from our fevered osculation.

In the next instant, we had disentangled ourselves from each other and were on our feet beside the piano bench. Esme immediately began straightening her dress and smoothing her tousled hair as Edward politely averted his gaze to examine me, undoubtedly taking in my current state of discomfort, both physical and mental. My joy at his return was eclipsed by an acute trepidation as I met his gaze, a petrifying fear that I would find bright ruby orbs staring back at me. But relief flooded through my being when I saw the light topaz of his eyes, only to be replaced with deep regret at the unmasked pain that flashed distinctly within them.

"Welcome home, son."

I opened my arms and moved towards him, anxious to change the tone of the moment by welcoming Edward back to our home as a father would—with an embrace. But he shook his head, still standing apprehensively in the doorway, his eyes darting to Esme briefly in a silent indication of the reason for his coldness. She was standing directly beside me once more, beaming up at Edward, her happiness re-igniting and fueling my own elation.

When my gaze returned to my son, his distraught, topaz eyes still bore into mine.

_I cannot express how much you were missed, Edward_.

He shrugged indifferently, his words sharp with a deeply-rooted bitterness. "I hadn't realized I would be interrupting anything. Maybe I should leave." Surprisingly, I found myself having expected such a sarcastic response. Despite his long absence, it seemed as though nothing had changed at all. At least, _he_ hadn't changed. I, on the other hand, seemed to have lost all patience for his impertinence.

"Edward—" I began to protest, but was stopped short when Esme's hand came to rest on my arm. The movement captured Edward's attention, his golden eyes narrowing coldly as he glared at the gesture. Clearly, he still held tightly to his initial contempt, and if history patterned my expectation, as it did, he would undoubtedly cling to his animosity with the fervor of a newborn to his first meal.

If Esme noticed his expression of displeasure, she chose to ignore it, keeping her eyes locked on my face as I turned slightly toward her. It was the bright glimmer of amusement dancing in her carmine eyes that piqued my curiosity, causing my suspended tirade to go unfinished.

How could she remain so blissfully optimistic despite Edward's deliberate attempts to drive her away? Her smile widened even further as I nodded, encouraging her to speak.

"I think you have much to say that would be easier to discuss if I weren't present," she stated softly, her voice low and calming as she looked between Edward and me. The tone surprised me, the paramount confidence entirely absent, replaced by an almost passive quality. Though unlikely, was it possible she was somehow intimidated by him? If that was the case, I wouldn't have it.

"No, Esme. This now concerns you just as much as either of us," I asserted, "and I think it best that you be included in the conversation."

"Thank you, Carlisle." She paused briefly, her gaze darting to Edward quickly before returning to mine. "And I will—just not yet."

I glanced over at Edward, still standing obstinately in the doorway. His expression voiced his objection to my statement, though he remained suspiciously silent. I could tell he was focusing intently on Esme's mind, his entire demeanor like that of a soldier in enemy territory, searching desperately for something he might use as a weapon.

For the second time since Esme's arrival into our lives, I was ashamed of him. And as before, he knew it, unmasked hurt ripping through his features as he let his gaze fall to the floor. It was agony to see him in such pain, even if it was of his own doing. Everything within me struggled to find a way to make it right.

However, I was brought from my thoughts by a firm pressure from Esme's hands, which had somehow found their familiar place within mine.

The moment I turned back to her, our eyes locked in a tight embrace. All ceased to exist in the world, save for the woman before me, whose beauty could never be put into words, nor fully comprehended; and whose heart, however little I knew of it, far outshone any other on this terrestrial sphere.

I could almost hear her words of encouragement, as I had that day in the forest—_I'll be right here_. She was reassuring me that, no matter what happened, her love would remain steadfast. Indeed, it seemed I was approaching Edward completely blind in this matter, whatever the matter was.

But would her love be enough if I lost my son? I wasn't entirely sure. And whether it was communicated through my eyes or in some other unconscious way, Esme sensed my doubt. She tightened her hands around mine in reassurance, and I winced, suddenly reminded of her newborn strength. Gasping in shock, she loosened her hold immediately, her gaze falling to my hands in concern.

I became aware of my surroundings again as the moment faded, the dull light from a lamp atop the piano casting a faint glow about the room. Edward had apparently lit the lamp at some point, and was now sitting behind us, in a chair by the couch, his perplexed gaze locked on the two of us. How long had we been standing there, so inconsiderate of his presence?

Looking back to Esme, I found her attention had followed a similar path. She appeared sad, the look fading to hopeful as she met my gaze. Closing the small distance between us, she reached up, kissing me chastely on the lips, giving me one small smile as she turned to leave the room. She paused just before closing the door, opening it up a bit wider to look straight at Edward.

"Welcome home, Edward," she beamed, then quietly shut the door.

As I turned to face my son, a darkened silence filled the room. The clock in my study chimed three o'clock, the incessant seconds' measured ticking and susurrus of the early morning breeze through the branches outside reminding me of those few hours after Edward's first awakening into this life—he'd felt frightened, lost, alone. So much had changed since then, and yet there he sat, looking as solitary and wayward as he had that day in October, not three years ago.

A humorless laugh escaped him at my thought, his hand coming up to run through his unruly hair as he sought to hide his brokenness. Now, as then, the love I held for him cried at his distress, and I moved quickly, sitting on the end of the couch nearest him, placing a hand on his shoulder in comfort. I could tell the past two weeks had been harder on him than me. It was the longest we'd been apart since we had known each other, and he had spent it alone. Though I was anxious to share the events of my days with him, it was far more important to me that he had been all right.

"You won't need to bother," he said, raising his head up to meet my confused gaze. "While you were busy accusing me of procuring ammunitions, Esme filled me in on the…finer points." He grimaced at this, and I immediately felt again what I had experienced upon Edward's unexpected arrival, only just then finding a name for it—utter mortification. The corner of one side of his mouth turned upwards slightly, the beginnings of his trademark crooked grin, but disappeared as he exhaled in an exasperated sigh.

"Things seem to be moving along with her," he continued, his voice colder somehow. "Perhaps I shouldn't have interrupted." His head was back in his hands now, preventing me from reading his expression. Immediately, two theories came to mind: either he was baiting me, knowing his statement to be false and merely seeking to hear the truth straight from my mouth, or he truly thought that. Either way, I was going to settle the matter once and for all.

I took in a deep breath, grasping Edward's shoulder more firmly to get his full attention. He sat up, but kept his gaze averted.

"Edward, to doubt my unconditional love for you, as my son, would be to not even know me. Yes, I do love Esme, and she helped to open my eyes to things about myself that I never could have dreamed. It has freed me to see everything in a new light, and that includes you." I was careful to keep my thoughts from getting ahead of my ability to speak them, knowing it would catch his attention if he didn't know where I was going with them. It worked, as he finally looked me in the eyes, his brow furrowing in concentration as he sought out my thoughts.

I took a deep breath, preparing myself. "I understand now how hard it must have been on you, having to live with me while you were a newborn, feeling that you somehow had to achieve some unspoken standard. I'm sorry I was so distant. So…_human_."

Edward's eyes widened slightly as he sat back in the chair in apparent wonder, finally understanding what I was trying to say. "You think you drove me away when Esme came?"

I sighed, closing my eyes as the weight of remorse crept through my being. "I know I did, and I'm sorry."

He didn't answer, but the atmosphere suddenly felt significantly lighter, like the air after a thunderstorm. But there was still a dark cloud hanging over us, and it had to do with his absence. I was relieved to see that his eyes were still gold, to be sure, but it did little to tell me what else had occurred. The memory of his departure returned, bringing with it the condition for his return.

"_I just need…time…to figure everything out for myself,"_ he had said. What implications did his homecoming hold, then?

It was the sudden sound of movement that made me open my eyes, and I found Edward standing beside his chair and looking out the window behind it, leaning his shoulder against the wall, a distant look in his eyes.

"I went to Chicago, to my parents' home, like I told you I would," he began, crossing his arms in front of him. I smiled, despite myself, at his practiced habit, and he looked over at me, unable to keep a self-satisfied smirk from forming. "If you think a simple gesture is impressive, you would have been amazed at how well I handled being around all those humans—all that _blood_. I didn't even lunge at anyone," he flatly joked. But I didn't see the humor in it, the immense pride I felt at his accomplishment smothering all but my apprehension at his ambiguous air.

_I am inestimably proud of you, Edward. The amount of control you have demonstrated would impress even the Volturi._

He simply shrugged at my praise, his manner still unwavering in its melancholy. I was becoming increasingly worried with each passing moment of weighty quiet. He was guarding his expression, knowing I could easily read it, and I had to quickly contain my thoughts as my mind began racing with the possibilities of what he was hiding from me. He clearly had enough to think about without also having to consider my endless concerns. If he had somehow heard my thoughts, he didn't acknowledge them, sighing heavily before continuing his tale.

"It was incredibly hard to be around such a large number of people—so many thoughts buzzing in my head, I nearly thought I would go insane." That was something I hadn't even considered at the time; but certainly, it would be an issue. Edward held up a hand, anticipating my concern. "But it was much like learning to ignore your thoughts, Carlisle—I found that the harder I focused on something specific, like a piece of music, the less clear each individual thought became. By the end of the third day, I could make those thousands of minds more like a monotonous drone, like a beehive." I could barely contain my pride at his perseverance, unable to imagine the torture of having someone else's thoughts in my mind, much less a thousand others.

"So by day, I kept to the house, playing the piano and studying—not unlike my usual activities here. I would spend most nights walking around town, seeking reminiscence of my fading human memories, keeping out of sight as much as possible. It was quieter while most of the city slept—easier to think…about everything."

I was unable to restrain the tangled mess of questions that emerged in my mind at his final statement. I knew, to some extent, what he specifically disliked about Esme—he felt she was somehow taking his place, and that he would no longer be welcome. But I couldn't believe that was the whole story.

A shake of his head confirmed that it was not, but he didn't elaborate. I was going to have to draw it from him, like poison from a wound.

_So, you thought about Esme,_ I silently stated, more than inquired. He didn't reply. _What did you conclude?_

"Other than the obvious fact that she's impossibly irritating?" He replied, and I could feel my body tense at his patronizing tone, a small, frustrated hiss unconsciously escaping me before I could stop it. I'd had enough of his petulant equivocation, and I wasn't going to put up with it. The shock in his expression told me that I didn't need to convey my warning through my thoughts, though I could hear the growl beneath the words nonetheless.

_What, _specifically,_ annoys you the most?_

Edward was silent and entirely still, his eyes fixed on a distant point outside. It was something he often did as he searched his inward thoughts. I, on the other hand, was running circles inside. We weren't yet five minutes into our conversation, and already, I was feeling impatient at the slow pace of our discourse. Never before had he been hesitant to be forthright with me, and yet there he stood, editing his thoughts and feelings when I wanted nothing less than to know everything—I absolutely longed to truly understand his position where Esme was concerned.

"She's madly in love with you to an absurd degree, and always has been," he began, "and that I could live with, especially since you seem to feel the same way." He turned from the window to face me, leaning his back against the wall, a resigned expression on his face. "After everything you've done for me, Carlisle, you deserve to be happy. And I can see that Esme brings you a joy that I never did."

"Edward, you know that's not an entirely true statement," I practically growled again. He had to know that it wasn't. It was as Esme had said—I never really allowed myself to be truly happy, even when I was. I didn't feel that I deserved it; that life devoid of true happiness and love was small penance for being the creature that I was. It wasn't Edward's fault, and it was wrong of him to shoulder the blame for it. Regardless, that wasn't the issue here, and he still hadn't answered my unspoken question.

"You're right, I suppose," he continued. "But what I meant by that is to say that I will put up with her, for your sake." I was relieved, and yet also undeniably exasperated. In that one sentence, he had calmed my fear of his leaving, blamed me for some implied inconvenience, and, once again, refused to give me a direct answer.

I stood swiftly, unable to sit idly while he proverbially pointed the finger at me. "I've had enough of this petulant expression of your negative opinion, Edward. What has she done to merit your poor opinion?"

"I don't like her attitude," he snapped. "From the very beginning, she's acted like she knows everything just because she's in love with you!"

"I see, Edward," I countered, suddenly realizing the source of his discontent. "Much in the way that you assume you know everything because you can read our minds?"

His entire form froze instantaneously, and I knew I had struck a nerve when his eyes closed firmly, his mouth forming a tight line. His arms flew to his sides, his hands clenching and unclenching repeatedly, abdomen and legs shaking as he visibly restrained himself from stooping into a defensive crouch. It had been entirely unintentional, and yet I had apparently stumbled upon something incredibly important—the reason why he hated Esme so. Was it, perhaps, because they were so similar is their ability to read each other, or was there something else there?

I barely had time to touch the surface of this novel idea before Edward sucked in a slow breath through his teeth, releasing it slowly as his eyes opened at a comparable speed. The repentant resignation I saw in them surprised me—I half expected him to snarl at me, as he had in previous matters, but the softness of his eyes suggested that he would be amenable.

"I don't assume I know everything, Carlisle," he said with a frustrated sigh, his unwavering gaze meeting mine. The flawlessly controlled, even tone of his voice concerned me, however; it felt as though he was attempting to divert my attention from my theory behind his grievance with Esme, so I quickly masked my diligently analyzing thoughts behind a curtain of attentiveness as he continued to speak, his gaze falling to the floor.

"I can see why you may think as much of me, though. But I do know _more_ than you," he asserted, a fiery determination behind his words. I nearly laughed at his arrogant declaration—the very idea of his knowing more than my nearly three hundred years' experience could teach absolutely preposterous—but he cut me off before I could voice it, his features tightening in resolve.

"If you don't believe me, then perhaps I should elucidate." He raised a brow in what appeared to be a challenge, and I was more than happy to oblige.

_I would love nothing more, Edward._ For now, I would let him think he was controlling the direction of this conversation, allow him to continue this verbal tantrum while my mind was busy thinking about my newest revelation.

The corners of his mouth turned slightly upwards in a grim, barely amused smile. "You think Esme has been entirely honest with you over the past few weeks, would that be correct?" I nodded, feeling my body tense at the unspoken accusation against Esme in his words. She had shared everything with me, even disclosing her close call with a human in my absence. I was becoming increasingly uncomfortable with the turn this conversation was taking, and he knew it.

He continued. "Then I suppose it will come as a complete surprise to you to know that Esme has been into your private journals while you were at work." I sat once more, my legs unable to hold me. I felt as though the wind had been knocked from me, though I needed no air. Dread gripped my stomach in alternating pangs of terror and pain as realization sank in. _My journals._

Shortly after my change, after I had discovered that I could live off the blood of animals, I began to write down as many of my human memories as I could, realizing how quickly they were fading. I would often look back on them as I struggled with my bloodlust, the transcripts then seeming foreign and fantastical, as though they were the fictitious tales of another. But I knew they were the shadows of what I had been at one time, the very proof that I still had a soul and conscience, despite what my treacherous desires dictated. Even as I forgot them, the written recollections lived on, helping me form much of the control that had eventually led me to attempt medical school.

But it was the journals in which the events _since_ my change were cataloged that I was most concerned about. In an effort to hold myself accountable during my time with the Volturi, in which many opportunities to abandon my strict diet were presented with much appeal and encouragement, I chronicled my early struggles. I was determined never to allow myself to disregard my newborn experience, lest I fall into the seductive arms of my thirst for human blood and become a monster. I wrote of my first encounter with the herd of deer that led to my current philosophy about my existence, the various methods used in my attempts at suicide. But it was the narrative about my first awakening and early hours of newborn life that terrified me the most, especially if Esme had read them.

In my mind's eye, I could see the exact page in the third journal, the neat, copperplate script that portended the bleak and disturbing accounts of my first memories as a vampire.

_I waited 'til the noise above me quieted, and from the cellar I emerged into the murky shadows of night, like a very devil from Hades. The scent of humanity—vile decay, perfumed with life—hung thick about me, my feet carrying me with haste over the putrid, cobbled streets. Dark was as light to me, though no lamp lit my path, and my ears hummed with the thousands of beating hearts. I dared not breathe, for fear of myself, until with wrenching sobs of utter despair I fell to the ground beyond the borders of the city._

_That first sob, drawn from the barren hole where my heart was naught, became my first and greatest mistake, for the warm, apostate breeze of evening brought with it the unmistakable scent of a small boy passing not a league from my huddled form. My eyes closed, my fingers dug deeply into the pliant turf beneath me, but my feet would not heed my resistance, and ran unbidden to the scent most enthralling. When my eyes opened, it was not the muddy earth in my grasp, but the arms of a young boy, the limbs crushed as though made of no more than clay. He fell to the ground with a great cry, his severed forearms still held tightly in my hands._

_What little reason remained within me screamed its dissent, but the child's screams only fueled my brutal desires, adding a frisson of demented delight to the act. One hand pushed the boy's head against the ground to still his thrashing so I might feed from the open wounds, but too tightly, for his skull crumbled beneath my fingers and the part fell unnaturally to the side, his neck broken, blood then flowing like water._

_If our Father in Heaven still had any mercy left for me, he supplied it that night. Just as my body made ready to feed, I stilled my breath, then my hands, and eventually my whole body. The demon within me roared with all its rage, shaking me to my foundations with his thirst. I stood, somehow, fighting my carnal desires each second, and between each second, until I was far enough from the corpse for what I had done to be comprehended._

_I was a murderer. And I would serve the sentence my crime deserved._

It took me only a moment to understand what Edward was saying. Esme knew, and she hadn't told me. She hadn't lied about it, but she had hidden her knowledge from me—_for what purpose?_

A memory from our hunt the day before suddenly hit me full force.

"_I've been thinking about it all day, and I've concluded that you're afraid to give over to what the vampire within truthfully wants," she had said._

_I tried to reason with her. "Esme, try to understand—"_

"_Stop telling me that I need to understand when I _alreadydo_," she growled. _

My head fell forward into my hands, my elbows braced on my knees as I finally realized that she had known all along. _She knew I was a murderer._

"After everything you've learned about Esme," Edward's voice cut through my despair, "it probably won't surprise you to hear that she doesn't think any less of you for it. In fact, she believes it made her love you even more, knowing everything you've been through."

My earlier frustration with his childish scheming returned, mounting by the moment as I realized what he was attempting to do with his espionage.

"That was out of line, Edward," I growled, standing and walking slowly toward him, the arrogant smirk fading marginally from his face. "Regardless of your intentions, which I can only assume to be deleterious, those are Esme's private thoughts. Just as it was my choice to finally reveal my feelings for her, it is her choice to tell me." As I reached him, he took a step away from the wall, his arms once again crossed against his chest. I looked him square in the eye. "It is not _your_ place to disclose that information. Do I make myself clear?"

Never before had I spoken to Edward in such a tone, and I could tell from the look on his face that he was as surprised as I. He nodded once, swiftly turning his back to me, looking out the window again. The matter of my journals was something I needed to work through with Esme, alone. _If only I could make him understand…_

Then, it struck me. That part of my mind that had been working ceaselessly on that theory finally found an answer, meeting almost seamlessly with the thought at the forefront of my consciousness. Edward and Esme were indeed quite similar with their ability to know what others were up to, telepathy or no; but there was one glaring difference.

_Knowing_ is not _understanding_. Simply because Edward knew so much about what went on in the minds of others did not mean he took that knowledge and turned it into a means of understanding them, perhaps empathizing with them.

That was the difference between them that had Edward so at odds with Esme. She had loved us both from the very beginning, in different regards; even though Edward expressed nothing but utter vehemence towards Esme since her rebirth, she had yet to have one unkind thing to say about him. It seemed as though Esme's unparalleled love for Edward and me allowed her to take what she knew of us, and understand us deeply and more thoroughly than I could have imagined possible. Perhaps that was a special ability she had, one that would enable those she loved to truly be _known _by her, in every way possible, and to know that they are loved regardless of what they have done, or will do.

Edward, on the other hand, seemed to base his love for others on the knowledge he obtained from them. Was it perhaps that he knew so much about her—about her abusive husband, how she lost her child, and how she wanted to end her life—and yet was unable to piece it together into a broader definition that would enable him to actually understand her? Was it so frustrating to him that he was unable to premeditate her next reaction because she could comprehend his actions better than he could read her thoughts?

"That's it exactly," Edward whispered. The sound was so quiet, barely more than a whisper, that I almost thought I had imagined it, but as he turned toward me, the unmistakable regret in his features proved that it had, indeed, come from him.

_You have been using your ability selfishly, then, Edward._ He nodded, and I placed a hand on his shoulder in comfort.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I just don't know how else to process others' thoughts when they're almost as clear in my head as my own." He pinched the bridge of his nose unconsciously, a habit he had picked up from me, before running his fingers through his already disheveled hair.

I sighed, moving closer to him so I could wrap my arm around his shoulders, as I contemplated his statement. _Someday, Edward, I hope you meet someone whose mind is completely closed to you, much in the way Esme's is to me. You'll come to see how important it is that you learn to understand them, rather than to jump to conclusions about their motives and actions, based on their thoughts. _I smiled slightly, thinking back to the past few weeks with Esme. _I've learned that not everything that occurs is directly connected to our minds and reasoning._

It made sense, that when altruistic ideas or thoughts became intrinsic, it would only be natural to make them more self-serving, as you might with information from a textbook or lecture. But Edward was young and inexperienced, not stupid. Surely he could find a way to change how he utilized the information gathered from the minds of others.

He nodded, his crooked grin appearing on his face, though it did not meet his eyes. I could tell he was thoroughly upset with himself, and though I didn't blame him, I had often learned, particularly in medical school, that it wasn't terribly constructive to sit and pour over your books unless you applied the information.

He laughed bitterly. "I'm not sure how to…make amends in this situation." He met my gaze, and I could tell from the look in his eye that he was once again my son—confident, if not a bit uncertain, stubborn, but willing to take advice.

Edward groaned slightly before I could start my reply, his face a mixture of relief and annoyance. Before I could ask, I heard Esme's footsteps in the hall, knocking on the door before I could register Edward's unusual expression. She opened the door cautiously and stepped inside, Edward turning out of my embrace and facing the window again. I almost felt the need to turn with him, knowing how much Esme knew of me now. My guilt and shame suddenly felt even more oppressive with her immediate presence, and I found myself unable to meet her gaze.

"It looks like you need to hear it too, Carlisle," she spoke after a few uncomfortable seconds.

My gaze traveled across the floor to her feet, and I forced myself to look at her. The confusion I felt at her statement, coupled with the fear of losing her respect, and ultimately her love, proved to be a nearly paralyzing terror. But there was no pity in her eyes, as I had expected, nor was there any judgment or anger. She had known all along, and it had not changed anything. It was not enough to drive out the shame I had always felt since that night, but the love in her eyes sparked a joy in my very soul that encompassed every ounce of my being.

However, I was still confused by her statement. "What do I need to hear, Esme?"

She smiled beatifically. "Edward said he didn't know how to make amends. And then I walk in here and you're standing there looking the same way you did after you killed that fawn…" Another fresh pang of guilt shot through me, and I began to wonder if she was actually trying to make either of us feel better, as her countenance would have suggested. "But I'll say to you precisely what I said—or _thought_, rather—to Edward." She was an inch away from me in an instant, our hands entwined as she laid her head against my chest.

"_There's no need._"

I remained quiet for a moment, allowing her words to sink in. It certainly didn't solve anything, to be sure, to know that she wasn't ashamed of my past actions. And we would absolutely need to discuss why she hadn't told me about reading my journals. But for now, I would need to let her love me, as I promised I would.

I heard Edward turn behind me, and I looked over my shoulder at him as he moved more to stand beside us. His face was unreadable as he looked between the two of us, and I wondered how he was taking it, considering all that we had discussed. I knew he wouldn't be able to accept her instantly; it was going to take time. Luckily, we had all of eternity. He smiled at me quickly before crossing his arms in front of him, forcing a stern look onto his face.

"Well, Esme, if you're finished monopolizing _my father_," I smiled at his emphasis, "I believe he has yet to properly welcome me home."

Esme lifted her head to look at me, her face alight with pure joy as she released my hands and threw herself at Edward, wrapping her arms tightly around him, his arms pinned to his sides. I brought a hand to my mouth to stifle a chortle, but couldn't contain my laughter at his absolutely incensed expression. I almost worried that he would attack her again once she released him, but he moved quickly to me instead as I opened my arms to my son, my thoughts nothing but complete elation now that he was home, and we were on the road to reconciliation.

"Edward," Esme's voice sang, "there were these beautiful songs Carlisle played while you were away. I don't suppose you know them?"

He was silent for a moment, undoubtedly reading her thoughts as she described the _Leider ohne Worte_ to him, before nodding. As he sat at his piano, looking more at home than ever, he ran his hands lightly over the keys with a nameless emotion on his face.

"Thank you," he whispered, presumably to Esme for fixing the piano. However, I had a sneaking suspicion there was more to it than that.

Esme moved to stand beside me as Edward played, his fingers dancing across the keys, sending the purest, most beautiful sounds through the air. Esme wrapped an arm around my waist as mine slid around her shoulders, pulling her close against my side.

At that moment, all was right with the world. Esme and I loved each other, deeply. My son was home.

And it felt, as if for the first time, that my heart was whole.

* * *

_Oh, no way--an end note!? Gasp!_

_Just to get ahead of you, because I know you'll ask: this is not the end of the series. I'm already halfway through chapter 12, so we will be going that far, at least. It'll all depend on how crazy my life gets from here on out. I really do hope to get through Rosalie and Emmett. They won't take four to five chapters apiece, hopefully, so perhaps I'll be able to see my full vision through and actually finish Emmett. I love them all, what can I say? I'm too much like Carlisle for my own damn good.  
_

_All right, I'll let you go now. Thanks for reading. There are so many of you on my story alert--thank you for reading. I would love it if you would even just drop a review to say "hi," or "wtf?" I reply to each and every review, and I would love to get the opportunity to thank you personally!  
_


	12. Union

_I own neither _Twilight_, nor Carlisle. My true Carlisle is out there somewhere; I just haven't fallen out of the right tree yet. :)_

_Many thanks bananapancakes7 (orangesky728 on Twilighted) for her assistance in wrestling with this beast of a chapter. I hope your crabby, sleep-deprived roommate isn't too much to deal with..._

_I cannot express my gratefulness to my faithful readers and reviewers. It is truly you who have encouraged me enough to continue with this series, and to pull an all-nighter in order to finish it by today. So, though it is not enough: thank you.  
_

_It's been about a month, but I promise this chapter is worth it. And I must warn you, though I don't get literally graphic, this chapter does contain some very mature themes, the story being rated M for this very reason. I was intrigued by Edward's comment in _Breaking Dawn_ about a conversation with his father, in which Carlisle told him that "strong emotions can alter them in permanent ways." The final portion of this chapter is my attempt to explore that concept, and how that comment may have come from Carlisle's own experience. I certainly hope you find it tastefully done, in a manner that Carlisle, indeed, might have written it._

_Enjoy!_

* * *

The day was no different from any other. After nearly a week of unusually sunny, early Autumn weather, the overcast skies and cool breeze, heavy with the promise of rain, were a welcome change. A six-day delay in our plan had left both Esme and I on an eager edge, and though Edward seemed altogether apathetic, the three of us were consonantly impatient for the execution of a performance that, at first, was wholly unnecessary.

* * *

The entire ordeal had started shortly after Edward's return, just over three months ago, in the most unusual of places—the hospital. A nurse had, lachrymosely, entered my office to inform me that the minister wished to speak with me concerning my upcoming nuptials. Before I was able to get a word in edgewise, the poor woman burst into tears, rapidly sobbing her hopes for my happiness and that she would send him in, leaving me in a stunned silence as she quite literally fled the room.

It was difficult to come up with a proper subterfuge to explain Esme's sudden arrival; there would be questions, to be sure, and the seemingly endless tittle-tattle in the growing lumber town posed a rather baneful obstacle. We would also need to change her name, as she had, briefly, been a schoolteacher in Ashland only a year before. In the end, we decided on a sort of half-truth: that Esme—who would be going by her middle name, _Ann_—was Edward's older sister. She and I had been corresponding ever since we moved from Chicago, and finally decided to marry.

What we hadn't anticipated was that, from the mouth of one nurse, the entire town would eventually find out about it—the entire town that knew Edward as my _nephew_. It was all too easy, however, to quell the rumor that I was marrying my niece. Once the minister learned, with great relief, that Edward was not my biological nephew, the town scandal slowly weakened. But the publicity it had garnered had placed me rather grudgingly in the public eye, and I continued to be the recipient of endless letters and visitors to the hospital, each one inquiring indefatigably after the mystery woman to whom I would be wed. I had gone from nearly non-existent to the most prominent member of the town and hospital staff almost overnight, and I would need to find a way to regain my lowly status, once more becoming negligible in order to protect our way of life.

Though Esme and I knew we wanted the wedding to be private, only a few close colleagues and their families, her arrival into town could not remain secret. So we devised a plausible artifice that Edward would be driving to Duluth, where his sister would be arriving by motor bus, arriving precisely one week before the wedding. Upon her arrival, I would, naturally, need to give _Ann_ a walking tour of the town, during which time the majority of the population would have ample opportunity for introduction and appraisal.

* * *

Unfortunately, the unwelcome, pleasant weather arrested her planned arrival and wedding date, requiring me to excuse the delay repeatedly, until at last we were able to put our plan into action. Edward took our new Franklin automobile a few miles west of town and hid it before running back to join us for a day-long hunt.

After cleaning up, Edward ran ahead to make the car believably worn; Esme and I eventually followed at a leisurely, but determined pace. We had hoped the deferral of her grand entrance would somewhat discourage the curiosity of the women in town, but to our chagrin, it seemed to have only instigated it. But as we walked through the forest and the clamor of the past few months was literally miles away, the sounds and smells of tranquility surrounded us, and it felt as though all was right with the world—at least for the moment.

Nervously treading beside me, Esme was alternately combing her fingers through her carefully curled locks and smoothing the non-existent wrinkles from her dress.

"Carlisle, are you sure I look all right?" she asked once more. "I tried to pick out a modest dress that wasn't too pretentious, but I also don't want it to seem as though you're marrying a destitute…"

I was unable to hold in my amused chuckle at her insecurity—_as if any woman in town could hold a candle to her!_ Still, I was more than willing to offer her the reassurance she clearly needed. "You look as lovely as ever, Esme. Even if you did actually wander into town a pauper, everyone would still find you just as enchanting, and I would still marry you."

She sighed. "I guess you're right—I really ought to stop fussing. I really don't care if anyone else thinks I'm acceptable so long as you do. It's just—" She cut off abruptly, huffing in annoyance and turning her face away from me, a sure sign that she was ashamed of something.

"What is it?" I encouraged, but she remained silent. Of all the things I had come to understand about Esme and her deep love for our family, the most important was her self-sacrificing nature. There was much she still seemed uncomfortable disclosing immediately, particularly if she felt it was unnecessary. I stopped straight away, catching her hand in the same motion to impede her advance.

She still averted her gaze, so I raised my free hand, holding it gently to the side of her face in silent appeal until she finally lifted her eyes to meet mine. The red was fading quickly, her mesmeric orbs now a burnished claret, the deep caramel color of her hair complimenting the scintilla of light brown that set her eyes alight. To any human with the usual amount of courage to voluntarily approach our kind, her eyes might seem a unique hazel-brown; but few would ever have the honor of becoming lost in her loving gaze—that was a privilege, soon to be mine alone.

"Esme," I pressed, "you know there is nothing you can't tell me."

She nodded lightly, her bashful expression lifting in slight amusement. "I'm sure you'll just laugh, and I feel silly already for thinking it, but it can't be helped," she rambled, sucking in a deep breath in preparation for the revelation of her latest thought. "I know _you_ don't concern yourself much with the people you work with, as you're in the field for the patients you treat, but I really want to make a good impression—I want to make you look good." Again, I was entirely baffled as to where this was coming from, but I withheld comment, as it was clear she wasn't finished.

"You're the ultimate paladin of my world, Carlisle—of the entire vampire world, as far as I'm concerned—and I can't help but feel that I really don't deserve you to begin with," she promulgated, already having placed her fingers on my mouth before I could argue and smiling in reassurance of her contentment. "I _know_ that it isn't necessarily true, but I can't help the way I _feel_ about it. And I rather look forward to an eternity of your changing my view on the matter." She smirked, the expression so innocently alluring, and I placed a light kiss to her fingertips, desperately checking the desire that welled up within me at her insinuation. "Regardless, I want to be a wife you'll be proud of. Accomplished, beautiful, fashionable—"

"_Fashionable?_" I chortled, unable to restrain my laughter any longer at her needless fear—that was it? She was afraid she would somehow damage my reputation by not finding favor in the eyes of the humans around us? "Esme, you speak of yourself as though you're a new automobile I've purchased!"

She fought a smile, her eyes intent on my features as I struggled to contain my amusement. Eventually, she also released an embarrassed chuckle before leaning into my chest, my arms wrapping tightly about her. I kissed the crown of her head before resting my cheek there, inhaling her rich, comforting scent. We simply held each other for a while, reveling in the pithy stillness and distant sounds of the breeze through the treetops.

I knew, of course, that it was really her control that she was concerned about. It would be her first excursion into town, and though we had often walked along the edges of Ashland together with no incident, there was no guarantee that she could remain in control once the scent of human blood was so concentrated, and in such close proximity. But I had every faith in her—we would get through this.

Pulling back, I cradled her face gently in my hands, my fingers woven through her silken locks, and looked deeply into her eyes, feeling my own soften as our gazes locked. "I already _am _proud of you Esme, and that will never change, no matter what." I leaned in, giving her a soft, chaste kiss to emphasize my final point: "I will always love you, no matter what."

As I pulled back, her hands found their way atop mine, gently holding them in place as a contented expression lit her face, her eyes still closed. The ring on her left hand coruscated with the motion, instantaneously sparking a memory as vivid as if it had been only moments ago.

* * *

I held the tiny ring in deep consideration as I sat at the desk in my study, having passed the early morning hours in reflection and preparation. The idea of marriage had not occurred to me since my years as a human. Though my memories were dim, I distinctly remembered my deep desire for someone to share my life with, to have a family with. But my father's crusades had consumed my life, and I had always fought desperately for a cause that was both my own, and not my own. Any hopes and dreams I may have had were necessarily replaced; I could not dream of leaving a wife and children behind, as my father had, to hunt down and murder innocents in the name of a holy God. But just because I had relinquished the dream to fulfill my father's charge did not mean I had ever abandoned it.

As Edward opened the door to my study, I broke away from my memories, setting the ring deliberately on the desk in front of me. His eyes were glued to the gold band, the small topaz stone atop it glittering in the early morning light that filtered through the east-facing windows. He knew of my intention to propose today, my thoughts having beckoned him to my study so that I could ask for his assent. Esme had mentioned that she missed the shore of Lake Superior, and I would be taking her to a secluded spot east of the city to propose at midnight—_the end of an old day, flowing seamlessly into a new and perfect eternity._

Over the previous few weeks, Edward had allowed himself to grow closer to Esme, though he still maintained a formally civil, polite attitude toward her most of the time. I could tell from his carefully placed mask of indifference that he was not surprised by my news, though his eyes conveyed his profound unhappiness. His gaze met mine briefly; a quick nod was his only answer before he began to close the door.

_Edward, wait._

He opened the door again, clearly unwilling to step inside.

_You think it's too soon, don't you?_

He kept his eyes downcast, and I was unable to read his stolid expression. Human relationships often took years to move to marriage, though they had less time than we to form them; yet I knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that I was meant to be with Esme, and that my love for her would never change.

Edward's grip on the doorknob tightened, the only outward indication of his internal struggle—I had seen it far too many times before. I would have given anything at that moment for him to speak to me as he once did—openly and without exception. If he would only speak his mind—couldn't he see how badly I wanted his happiness, too?

"I _do_ see," he whispered.

He offered a weak smile, nodding to the ring on my desk before his eyes shifted to the wall that separated my office from Esme's room, where she was currently painting, humming the melody of one of Edward's recently performed pieces. The gesture was his silent encouragement, the consent that I had so desperately sought—but was it really what he wanted? As we had recently learned of him, was it perhaps that he knew, but did not understand?

I gave him an inquisitive, but pointed look. _If you see, then why can't you talk to me anymore? Why won't you tell me what will make you happy?_

He only sighed, turning to walk back upstairs, leaving the door slightly ajar. His final words came to me from upstairs, floating atop the peaceful notes of Esme's song.

"Because I want _you_ to be happy, Carlisle."

* * *

Though it took a mere second to replay the scene in my mind, Esme could sense the shift in my mood, and she clasped my hands, bringing them from her hair and holding them between us.

"Where did you go?" Though her tone had a slight teasing edge to it, her expression was one of great concern.

I wasn't entirely certain how best to answer her question. I didn't think it right, at the present moment, to burden her with additional distress, particularly one concerning Edward. He had been less than enthusiastic about being involved in the wedding at all, refusing Esme's request that he play the processional, and begrudgingly running errands only at my behest. The course of a few months seemed to have calmed his odium somewhat, the very charade we were about to perform being of his own design, and I had the greatest of faith in his ability to learn and grow from his relationship with Esme as I had already.

This thought reminded me of the task before us, and I took Esme's hand in mine, leading her forward, once again, in the direction of Edward's scent while I formed my answer.

"I was just thinking of the morning of the day I proposed to you."

"Ah," she laughed. "I was covered in paint, and suddenly you were knocking on my door, asking me to accompany you to the lakeshore that evening." I couldn't help but smile at the memory—she had been slightly disheveled and spattered from head to toe in splotches of light blue paint; still just as breathtaking. I continued on this digression, laughing alongside her and pushing the preceding events to the back of my mind.

"Yes, I didn't have much experience with women in general, and absolutely none in a romantic context," I admitted. "And though I had no doubt that you would accept, I found myself absolutely terrified at the prospect. I spent the entire night before researching, reading Austen novels so I might design a proper way to propose."

She began laughing even harder, and after a moment of my immense confusion, she was finally able to form a coherent sentence. "Yes, I can see it now, Carlisle—'_Romance: Research in Overview_,' your newest contribution to the latest medical journal!"

As I joined in her amusement, the presence of my ring on her hand suddenly became the center of my attention. I could feel the cool metal beneath my fingers, and my hand reflexively tightened around hers with the sudden, increased awareness.

She looked over at me, her gaze soft. "You aren't quite so hopeless at romance as you think, Carlisle. Any man who would design a wedding band after the gifts given to Queen Victoria's bridal attendants is hardly lacking in romantic ability." She leaned her head against my shoulder as we walked, and I released her hand so I could wrap my arm around her shoulders, bringing her closer beside me.

"Perhaps you're right," I smiled. "Though credit for the initial idea goes entirely to you."

While making wedding plans, Esme had recalled a memory of a magazine article she once read in Columbus, shortly after meeting me. The piece had such an impact on her, she had immediately written down what she wished her wedding to be like—with me as the bridegroom, of course. The article detailed the wedding of Queen Victoria to Prince Albert in 1840. The prince had given Victoria's attendants each a gold brooch of his own design, set with turquoises and pearls to represent true love, rubies for passion, and diamonds for eternity.

Esme had spent a great deal of time describing Queen Victoria's regal wedding dress, and thought she might be able to recreate it with the proper materials, stating, "You deserve a queen, but we'll have to make do with me." By then, however, my mind was already working hard on her wedding band; specifically, on how best to weave all four elements of those brooches together, tastefully, into one small symbol of our eternal commitment of love. After a week of research and sketching, I sent my request to a well-known jeweler in New York, who was more than able to create my conception.

When it arrived two months later, I presented it to Esme for her inspection and approval, who began sobbing as soon as she saw it. Had she not thrown herself at me in the next moment, I might have been afraid that she hated it.

"I gave you no ideas, Carlisle," Esme's voice brought me back to the present. "What you glean from our conversations is entirely from your own genius. I will accept no credit for your brilliance."

Chuckling at her compliment, and slightly unwilling to disagree, I leaned down, giving her one last, adoring kiss as the forest finally gave way to a clearing—and our car.

Leaning against the passenger side door, facing us, Edward's posture communicated an air of equanimity that was a stark contrast to his attitude of late, particularly in regards to our wedding. It was a welcome change, to be sure, but I couldn't help but wonder what had brought on such a complete turnabout. Regardless, his scent in the area was already stale—he had been here a while.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, Edward," I said, leading Esme to the car. Edward merely nodded, opening the door for her as she stepped in, closing it and racing to the driver's seat in the same instant.

She reached her hand out the window, and I took it, squeezing lightly in reassurance. "It's mid afternoon, so it will be relatively busy in town," I cautioned. "You'll want to be vigilant as you drive through, and hold your breath if you absolutely need to; we don't yet know exactly how bad it will be for you, but Edward will be monitoring you constantly."

I gave him a pointed look to convey my instruction, and he nodded, "Of course."

"Once you arrive back at the house, we'll wait until dusk, and then the three of us will walk through town. There will be fewer people out at that time, but also just enough exposure that everyone will have heard about you indirectly by the end of the week."

Esme was clearly trying to put on a brave face, but I could tell she was as nervous about this as Edward and I were; but underneath burned an undying flame of hope in her eyes, and it fueled my own fires of faith. I clasped her hand in both of mine as Edward started the car. "You'll do fine, Esme. I'll see you at home."

"I love you," she whispered, and with that, Edward pulled away, driving off toward Ashland. As they pulled onto the main road, I heard Edward start a conversation with her.

"For the record, I think the new bobbed hairstyle looks ridiculous on women. Particularly in your case, it wouldn't make you look _fashionable _in the least_._"

* * *

This was a day that would stand out in my memory until the end of time. I had finished the final preparations with the minister, and the two dozen guests had gathered, seated on either side of the aisle, down which the sole love of my existence would walk momentarily. Edward sat in the front pew of the church with me as eight o'clock drew near. Only a few more minutes, now.

Never in my life had I felt so entirely unprepared. There was no book that could teach me what I needed to know, no courses in a university on being the ideal husband. There was nothing I could offer Esme but myself, and that, inherently, was terrifying. I knew she had no preconceived ideals of who and what I was; she was far too down-to-earth to hold me on some Herculean pedestal. But I wanted to be everything for her: to provide her with everything she would ever need.

Edward excused himself to retrieve Esme, leaving me alone with my tumultuous thoughts. I wasn't entirely sure what, precisely, I was so terrified of—Esme and I loved each other deeply, and it wasn't as though she hadn't been living with us already. I was entirely excited to make her mine, but also thoroughly afraid of letting her down in any regard, of losing her respect and love. Would we stay the same forever, or would we continually grow and change each other as we had already? Not to mention, eternity was an awfully long time in which to make a multitude of mistakes and thoughtless injuries.

_Yes,_ I thought,_ but it is also time enough to make amends._

Any and all thoughts were pushed to the back of my mind as I heard Edward knock on the door of Esme's makeshift dressing room.

"Come in," came Esme's voice, as clearly as if she were merely across the room. The door opened, and Edward stepped inside, closing it behind him.

"You look absolutely stunning, Esme," Edward said, his voice carrying almost a sense of awe. Could it be he was merely acting for her sake?

"Thank you, Edward. Am I to assume you've come to tell me it's time for my grand entrance?"

"Yes. But I've also a few other things I wish to say before the ceremony gets underway. To you…and Carlisle." I was slightly surprised at this development, concerned as to the direction it would be going and its timing, but pleased that he was finally willing to open up.

"I'm listening, Edward," I spoke just loud enough for them to hear. Unfortunately, it was also loud enough for the minister, who sat across the aisle, to hear, as I earned a confused glance from him. I simply smiled at him, sitting back in my seat as I focused on the discussion going on at the back of the church.

"Since my time in Chicago," he continued, "I have thought about many of my objections to your addition into our family. Most of them were selfish, I will admit, and the majority of them have already been laid out on the table and addressed. But there is one that I have yet to disclose, and it would be unfair to everyone if I kept it clandestine."

He was silent for a moment, and it took all my willpower not to race back to the room, to be physically present for him in this clearly difficult revelation.

"I'm fine, thank you." He paused a beat, then added, "Carlisle is considering coming back to offer moral support."

"Carlisle, don't you _dare_," came Esme's warning. Despite my wary impatience, I chuckled at her vivacity.

"I have a question for Carlisle that prefaces the issue," Edward asserted, his voice taking on a new timbre of determination. "Do you remember my mother?"

I was shocked at the theme of his discourse, unable to respond verbally as my thoughts inevitably followed this new trail. I didn't think of Elizabeth as often as I did in the early days of Edward's new life with me, but she was still in my mind, as clear and vivid as if I had seen her only moments ago. I remembered how Esme had first reminded me of her, though the similarities faded as I had grown to know Esme better over the past fortnight.

He continued immediately. "Precisely; my human memories are slowly fading. I feel it more with each passing day. _Your_ memories of her are sharper than my own, now, and this fact has been increasingly infuriating since Esme came into our lives. At first, I thought it was a separate issue, exacerbated by the fact that Esme irritated me to no end. But upon further reflection, I've come to understand that they're inextricably connected." He sighed, and I could almost picture him pinching the bridge of his nose in an attempt to reign in his rising emotion—a habit he had picked up from me, I noted with a small amount of pride.

"I cannot allow her to be replaced," he spoke softly, nearly too quietly for me to hear above the conversations in the sanctuary. "I don't want her be forgotten."

"So that's it, then," Esme concluded. "You feel that I'm trying to take your mother's place."

I could picture the resigned nod Edward gave her—the tortured, vulnerable expression on his face. "If you had asked me that four months ago, I would have told you I _knew_ it," he stated. "Being Carlisle's wife and having a replacement son was nearly all you could think about when you first awoke."

"I _am_ sorry about that, Edward." I could hear the rustle of fabric, the cloth moving against itself and the floor as she moved, presumably closer to him. "What was your father's name?"

My curiosity was piqued at her sudden, seemingly unrelated change of subject. Nevertheless, Edward indulged her. "I am his namesake."

"You bear it well," Esme softly replied. "Now I know this may be difficult, but…do you feel Carlisle has replaced your father?"

Edward was silent for a few moments, and I nearly feared he was angry with her, but his voice conveyed no belligerence when he finally answered. "He has, in a way. But I was never particularly close with my father—he was always so preoccupied with his work. Carlisle has been more to me than my father ever was. He hasn't replaced him, exactly, but has become…abundantly more completing." He sighed. At his words, I could feel an almost uncontainable joy build within me, sobs threatening to burst forth from the relief I felt. "I'm not entirely certain that stands to any semblance of reason."

"Of course it does, Edward. And that's precisely my point. I do already view you as my son, to be sure, and I love you deeply as such. But I have no desire to replace your mother, and I will never force any such notion on you. I want only to be what you need."

A brief, pregnant quiet followed, and I was nearly replete with the need to be with them. Edward continued, then, satisfying the suspense I felt at my ignorance in their dialogue.

"I had a conversation with Carlisle not too long ago. He explained to me that you, as his wife and companion throughout eternity, will be his counterpart, and as such, you deserve as much respect as I afford him. But I don't feel that I can honorably promise that I will ever see you as more than an equal to myself, but I can promise that I will try."

"Thank you, Edward," she replied. "I couldn't ask for more. I, in turn, promise never to treat you as a subservient. In fact, if you like, we might even begin as the town sees us—I as your older sister, who no more sees herself as superior than such a relationship might entail."

There was a pithy silence, and I was nearly relieved to not be in the room. Even on the other side of the small building, I felt as though I was intruding on a private moment, glancing over the crowd to divert my attention until I heard Edward speak once more. The entire exchange had taken no more than a minute, and the minister glanced at his pocket watch, then at the doors in a pointedly expectant manner.

"I think that is certainly something I can agree with. I would just ask that you remember that you're really only six years my senior. Don't expect you'll ever be able to play the age card." She laughed as their footsteps moved toward the door. "Now, if you are entirely prepared, your bridegroom and public anxiously await."

He opened the door for her before murmuring just loudly enough for me to hear as a whisper. "If Carlisle were human, he would have worn a path in the floorboards by now." I heard Esme's laugh, more of a nervous giggle, a mere second before Edward appeared at the doorway, nodding to the organist in an indication to begin the processional. But instead of continuing up the aisle to join me as planned, he walked back to Esme, a surprised gasp issuing from her lips seconds before the prelude began—I recognized it immediately as a song Edward had composed, and had no doubt that Esme also knew.

Not only had he intended to walk her down the aisle, he had further honored us by writing an unspeakably beautiful, original processional. The delicate melody was the epitome of Esme, a melodic representation of her very being. If I had ever felt proud of Edward, in that moment, every other instance paled in comparison.

I stood, perhaps a little faster than I should have in the presence of humans, and subsequently berated my carelessness, all but commanding myself to calm down. Walking at a slow pace to the altar, I slowly turned as Edward came into view around the corner. But even as the small gathering began their hushed, awed murmuring, I was unable to tear my gaze away from the ethereal, indescribable beauty with her arm slipped delicately through Edward's.

In all my studies, through the various languages I had learned and books I had read, there were not words, to my knowledge, that would adequately impart a truthful illustration of Esme's grandeur. Even as my mind absorbed the fey walking proudly toward me, I saw nothing but my Esme—it was who she was at that moment that captured my heart: a woman of unsurpassed inward grace and beauty, a mere hazy reflection of which adorned her outward features.

She had already delighted the few who had chanced to meet her the week before, valiantly bearing the oppressive, agonizing torment of bloodlust as a practiced ancient. Even now, she appeared completely controlled and confident in her march, a queen among beggars in the eyes of those gathered, but solely reigning over my heart. Never would she be some untouchable deity of whom I was undeserving to walk beside—we were equals in every way, and this ceremony was the symbol of our eternal union.

I sucked in a shaky, unnecessary breath in utter enchantment, the sweet, delicate scent of Esme filling my body, enhanced by the light perfume from a crown of orange blossoms atop her cap veil. As she glided toward me with impeccable elegance, now only a few steps away, I was drawn from my trance by Edward's voice, speaking so low and quickly that only Esme and I would be privy to what he had to say.

"I just want you to know, Esme," he said, his voice somehow heavier than I had ever heard it, "that though everyone else thinks it is you being given to Carlisle, in my eyes, it is _he_ I am giving to _you_." As they reached the altar, I offered my hand to Esme, and Edward placed her hand in mine, holding his over ours for a long moment in a public display of his alliance. "And truthfully, I'm happy to do so."

I met his tight gaze, unable to form the words that I so longed to speak aloud, a proper way to convey the deep love and respect I held for him as my son.

_Thank you, Edward._

My mind was in a cloud, the past, present, and future seeming to find their way into my thoughts in the same instant. My heart was so full, praising God for the first time in nearly three centuries for the blessings he had so graciously bestowed. But more importantly, my soul—the very center of my being—felt at peace for the first time in my long recollection.

Before long, the ceremony was over, our marriage publicly and legally declared. Esme's eyes lit with mischief a second before she launched herself at me, carefully this time, our lips meeting as she pressed her body tightly to mine. A great laugh went up among the applauding witnesses at her seemingly spontaneous actions, though even Edward was unable to hold in a laugh at the associated memory of her unconscious assault that second day.

The next hour passed quickly. Congratulations were accepted, expressions of gratitude given, farewells exchanged. Soon, we were in the car, Edward supposedly driving us to Duluth once more. In reality, Esme had requested a special location for our wedding night, though it would take a day's journey to arrive.

We left Edward just over the Minnesota border after a long and difficult farewell, running south and east with the few necessities we would need for our month-long honeymoon. We sped along in companionable silence, and my mind wandered back to our first discussion of this very trip.

"I've always wanted to see South America, ever since I learned about it in school," Esme had said. "Though clearly it would be terribly impractical now, being what we are, to go traipsing about in the endless sunlight." _Yes,_ I had initially thought, _terribly impractical, indeed._ But I so longed to fulfill her every wish, and with much determination and planning, I had finally come up with a way to make it plausible.

I doubted many people would suspect a couple on their honeymoon that stayed in their room all day, only coming out at night. In fact, a soldier I had treated in Boston could speak of nothing but the night life in Rio de Janeiro. I had easily made the arrangements with my myriad of connections from my years abroad, making Esme's dream a reality.

But now we drew close to our destination, and I carefully led Esme around the city. I was surprised at its expansion in the ten years of my absence; my old house was no longer as secluded as it had once been, several farms and outlying houses now surrounding the property on every side. Esme seemed as fascinated as I with the changes in Columbus, alert and observant in the crisp, early morning air.

"I used to visit here often after you left," Esme sighed, a distant look in her eyes as we stood before my previous abode, speaking as I unlocked the door and placed our bags just inside. "I couldn't understand why I was so heartbroken when I didn't even really know you, but I found myself drawn here." She laughed, "I even imagined you carrying me across the threshold."

"I see," I began, using as professional a tone as I could muster, fighting the rising excitement within me. "Like _this?_" And with that, I dramatically lifted her off the ground, her delightful scream of laughter filling the air before she threw her arms about my neck, pressing her lips to mine as I carried her inside, kicking the door closed behind us.

She was the first to pull away, leaning her head against my shoulder, her previous mirth still lightly shaking her frame. "No," she remarked, "that was _far_ betterthan what I had imagined."

She raised her head, clearly taking in our surroundings, and I set her down lightly so she might be able to familiarize herself with the space. It was a modest one-room cabin, to which Edward had voluntarily traveled only last week to make it more…accommodating than it had been when I lived there. The major improvement was the replacement of the single cot with a more suitable double bed. It was this new addition that became the center of our attention, the lighthearted nature of our conversation suddenly taking on a serious character as our immense need for one another made itself known.

Up until now, we had refrained from consummating our relationship, more out of respect for Edward than anything else; and somehow, our compulsory abstinence had served only to heighten my already deep desire and longing for my love until it had become an unbearable necessity. Now, with nothing to stop us, the full extent of our love released in boundless freedom, I felt my entire being awaken for her.

I wanted her as my mate. I needed her as my wife. I loved her as my all.

I could see my own desires reflected in her darkening eyes as she walked toward me slowly, removing her overcoat in the process, each movement calculated and sure. Her hands moved beneath my jacket while she pressed closer, sliding up and easing the garment off of me before tangling in my hair and bringing my mouth to hers. As our lips met, my arms pulled her tightly against me, my fingers somehow finding the buttons on the back of her dress and releasing them slowly, one by one. Unlike our previous encounters in exploring each other's bodies, our movements were unhurried, the infinite time we had together now ultimately realized and appreciated.

Time and space were inconsequential, our bodies seeming formless with reckless abandon even as our hands touched and worshipped, our mouths tasting and caressing each other with the fullness of a love beyond my comprehension.

And there, in the midst of the unimaginable splendor, as our bodies were finally united, our love became entirely and infinitely limitless; our souls were freed, as though previously immured within the bounds of our separateness, coalescing into an indistinguishable oneness in which there was nothing but impossible bliss.

The inexplicable intensity of emotion drawn from our intimacy was nothing compared to the everlasting effects that would be branded into our very beings. It was as though every thought, every feeling, every action I had ever experienced with her was magnified a hundred fold as our passion increased in fervor. If I had ever loved her, it wasn't enough; if I had ever kissed or held her, it wasn't enough. If I had ever desired her, it was as though I never truly had.

The immense weight, the collective totality of thought and sensation was reaching a breaking point. All hope for control or semblance of conscious thought became lost in the reason of the moment, sacrificed to the inevitable flames of devotion. What had started as deliberate, reverent adulation had become a fevered desperation, both of us giving our utmost to the other, frantically seeking the zenith of our exaltation, lest our passion be unsatisfied and we remain forever unchanged by our love.

Our mouths locked one final time before Esme embraced me tightly, my name a song from her matchless depths as our world grew bright, the light burning through every fiber of our beings with its magnificent, untold glory. Our universe, limited to each other, danced and rejoiced with us at the ultimate culmination, Esme's name on my tongue drowning out the ovation in my heart as we slowly, but contentedly, returned from our personal heaven, never to be the same again.

* * *

The early morning light broke through the windows, finding us still locked in our intimate embrace, quiescently looking deeply into each other's eyes. Two hundred and seventy-odd years without Esme seemed nearly fantastical now that I had her. From the very beginning, she was entirely correct about me—I hadn't realized how much I was missing, nor how such a seemingly passive thing as _love_, given or received, could wield a power stalwart enough to influence even the most constant of vampires.

In the decades and centuries of working among humans, I found myself constantly at a greater advantage, be it in study or practice. But in all those years, seeing what humans could achieve with their limited means compared with my seemingly infinite ability, it was always _they_ who had the greater ability to grasp the intangibles in life—happiness, peace, kinship, _love_—than had ever been possible for me.

Esme's eyes closed, a happy sigh escaping her as I ran my fingers through her tawny curls, gently combing some loose strands into place. It was incredible to think what I might have—or rather, might _not _have become had she never come into our lives. Would I have stayed the same forever, never to experience life to its fullest measure? I would never know, now.

And for the first time in my existence, I was grateful to not have the answer.

* * *

_Ey? Ey? So, this concludes the "Esme" segment of the story. Possibly the most concise four months ever penned, but hopefully it wasn't too much of a disaster. (Yes, I really am as insecure as Carlisle about this whole thing.) Before you ask_—_Isle Esme comes much later, Edward having told Bella that it was an anniversary present. But, in my mind, perhaps Esme somehow went to Brazil and loved it so much that Carlisle simply _had_ to find her a residence there. It made sense to me._

_Also, there are a lot of "behind the scenes" snippets of my writing process in answers to reviews on Twilighted. It's better than the forum, even, so go check it out!  
_


	13. Reclamation

_I own neither _Twilight_, nor Carlisle. If I did, I would demand the honor of writing the screenplay for _Eclipse, _and we would cut to Carlisle's POV for the fight with the newborns. Good thing I don't own either of them, then. :)_

_I recently became aware of the fact that my story has been favorited 81 times on , and 146 on Twilighted! I cannot tell you what an honor that is, and how much it means to me that so many others enjoy my little idea of what the Cullens' beginning might have looked like. Truly, truly...I thank you all._

_An unimaginably large heaping of gratitude to bananapancakes7/orangesky728, my birthday twin and fabulous beta. She is a big reason this story is continuing, and deserves endless amounts of Java Chip Frappuccinos. My hat is off to you! Check out her story, _The Woods Are Lovely, Dark, and Deep_. Definitely Indie TwiFic Award-worthy material there!_

_And now we continue with the tale of Carlisle, and the Wayward Son...I mean, "_In My Power_."_

* * *

Consequently: I have learned to respect that word.

It's a word that gives significance and purpose to an otherwise meaningless and tempest-tossed existence. One does _so_, and by consequence, _such_ occurs. Whether by our own choice, God's will, or the oft-cruel hands of fate or destiny, every event, each seemingly desultory circumstance in the vast expanse of time, has come about as a result of something else.

It was the choice to uproot our family from Ashland that had led to the current crisis, then. My decision, borne of necessity and brought hastily to full realization, had inflicted irreparable damage upon my son.

And consequently, upon us all.

* * *

Not quite five years had passed since Esme and I were married, and once again, it was time for us to move on. Nearing the end of the summer of 1926, Esme and I worked almost unceasingly to settle the details that would finalize our move. Only the year before, the University of Rochester in New York State had opened its medical school along with a 250-bed community hospital, and they were in desperate need of additional staff. Not only did their doctors attend the patients in the rapidly growing city, but they were also each responsible for several interns from the new school. Within weeks of my initial inquiry, I was offered a position at the Strong Memorial Hospital with the possibility of becoming an adjunct professor in the future.

It was more than I had hoped for, and though we would be sad to leave our abode—the first place I had ever been able to truly call a home with my wife and son—I was thoroughly excited for the horizon expanding before us. The new opportunities for learning and growth in our new home seemed endless. Edward would begin his first collegiate studies at the University with hopes of attending the medical school upon graduation, claiming that it wouldn't be fair to the other students for him to major in music.

Esme was also interested in enrolling, given that the large city would not weaken her practiced control. Now five years into her new life, she demonstrated a great command of her bloodlust; she was able to venture into town with relative ease, though never without the company of Edward or myself. While she preferred more domestic activities during my working hours, she hoped to study in as many different areas as possible to find her niche. We would have a few years of judicious assessment in Rochester before we could be certain she could maintain full control in unsupervised, close quarters with humans, a fact with which Esme was thoroughly contented. "I've already found my area of expertise, anyway," she would cheekily say, pulling me close as our bodies proceeded to prove our prowess as enraptured lovers.

Our intimacy had proved to be a point of revolted intolerance for Edward. Though we attempted to give him fair warning as often as possible, there were more times than not that, Esme and I being caught in the spontaneous heat of the moment, poor Edward would be forced to bolt from the house with an intentionally vociferous snarl. It had been slightly uncomfortable for us all in the beginning, but apparently, the more we tried to refrain from sating our passionate need, for his sake, the more we were unable to think of anything else. Eventually, the constant flow of prurient thoughts from both Esme and I became too much for Edward, and he all but begged us to copulate as often as necessary if it would but release him from being an unfortunate voyeur for at least a few hours each day.

Regardless of the awkward situation with our son—as I did, secretly, consider him Esme's also—I found myself completely unable to feel any semblance of penitence for our frequent lovemaking. My deep and ever-increasing love for Esme had changed me irrevocably, and I found myself unable to think of much else besides how to express my adoration and complete devotion. Though it seemed impossible, I knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that her feelings matched mine exactly.

Edward eventually learned to recognize the tell-tale concupiscent tenor of our thoughts and make an early escape. He rarely complained, sometimes opting instead to punish us by glowering in an annoyed silence for an indeterminate amount of time. After several years, however, he came to truly understand my boundless need for my wife, and vice versa; Esme, I believe, was the chief reason for his ultimate acceptance.

During my shifts at the hospital, an agonizing separation after our return from the honeymoon, she spent the majority of her time with Edward, taking piano lessons and allowing him to help with various projects around the property. He never admitted it to anyone, but he had begun to let her in, and her inescapable love was strengthening their bond—he was growing closer to her by the day, and along with that new amity came a profound respect that mirrored what he held for me. If their relationship stayed its course, he would inevitably come to see her as his mother.

But that was before our move to Rochester, which would, consequently, alter the course of our lives forever.

Upon our arrival, I found the need for physicians at the medical center to be greater than I had anticipated. Rochester, New York, like most larger cities, was unprepared for the increase in crime as more people moved from rural farms into the city. Men, women, and youths that once had their hands full of work on their families' land now had copious amounts of free time with which they chose to utilize unwisely. The hospital received hundreds of assault victims each week, many of whom we could do nothing for beyond making them as comfortable as possible in their final minutes on earth.

Had my wife and son been human, I would have been in a constant state of worry for their safety in the city. We had moved into a small farm several miles outside of the city, far enough away that Edward would be afforded some semblance of tranquility after a long day surrounded by the drone of nearly three hundred thousand minds.

However, it was still near enough that I could drive the Franklin to work, and the old Victorian style house gave Esme endless options for improvement, a fact she immediately noted even before our things were unpacked. As we had anticipated, the smell of human blood in town was nearly too much for Esme, and though she was not afraid of losing control, it would take a long time for her to adjust to the concentration and build up enough of a tolerance. She seemed to have an increased respect for Edward's control in Chicago only three years after his change, knowing how difficult it still was for her _now_, after five years.

School began in September, and our family settled into a comfortable routine. I was working twelve hour shifts, both during the day and at night, always careful to avoid traveling in the brightest hours. Both Edward and I found ourselves about during the day more often than we ever had been before, and it forced us to find new and creative ways of getting around. Our automobile certainly made avoiding direct sunlight easier, and the abundance of cloudy days around the shore of Lake Ontario, particularly in the winter months, met our needs perfectly. Edward carried an umbrella on sunnier days, claiming that he had a rare condition in which the sun caused an incredibly unpleasant reaction in his skin. The irony was not lost on any of us.

Over the next few months, however, we began to notice a drastic change in Edward's overall countenance. His eyes slowly lost their bright gleam—a tense, troubled melancholy falling over him. Though he remained at the top of his class at the University, he no longer found joy in music as he once had, his piano sitting abandoned except for Esme's few attentions in hopes of lifting Edward's spirit. Even as we celebrated the new year together, 1927, he chose to go hunting alone, which had become the norm.

It was such a gradual deterioration that neither Esme nor I could discern the cause, which only served to increase our concern. Any attempt on our part to convey our love and support seemed only to darken his mood even more, and fear gripped me as I came to understand that something was _seriously_ wrong. I could not shake the feeling that something terrible was going to happen.

He had to have known we were worried about him, but refused to give answers to our questions about his depression, stating simply that it was nothing important.

But things of no importance cannot have enough effect on a vampire so as to cause any sort of change in who or what they are. It was quite literally painful for Esme and I to watch Edward struggle each day. If he was not attending classes or completing homework, he would sit solitary in his room, absolutely still for hours on end, no outward indication to give away any sort of inward turmoil.

Except his eyes. They were completely…_empty_.

I couldn't imagine what agony might cause such a lifeless, barren window to the world, but if it was in my power, I would do anything to see him alive again.

* * *

Days passed as seconds to us, and the snow turned to Spring as it melted, bringing forth renewed life and beauty in God's creation. But it was not for long.

Even if I had known what would follow, there was nothing that could have prevented it.

Edward and I were on our way home from a Medical Society social, at which many of my colleague's wives were ostensibly chagrined to hear of Esme's supposed illness, and many of their daughters were more than pleased to find that Edward had accompanied me. But the girls' friendly chatter held no more interest for him than anything else of late, and he was eventually left alone, off to the side of the room, quite early in the evening.

The light was almost completely faded in the western horizon as we walked towards our car. Off in the distance, the sounds of the busier end of town floated through the night air; the quieter streets of the warehouse district down which we traveled held only a few lonely people and the occasional couple walking hand-in-hand. Suddenly, a man rushed by us at a somewhat uncoordinated, brisk pace, reeking of alcohol and tobacco, and as per usual, avoiding eye contact.

I had barely taken another full stride before I realized that Edward had completely stopped.

Turning, I was immediately alarmed to find Edward crouched, arms tense as his hands clenched and unclenched repeatedly into fists. His ordinarily vacant eyes were now focused and bore with deadly vehemence into the ground beside me. His teeth were bared, a slight hiss coming from between them, venom glistening off the razor-sharp incisors.

I stepped to him, placing a hand on his shoulder in an effort to calm him. His posture appeared to be defensive, as though an imminent threat was near—perhaps another vampire. But he would have communicated something of that nature to me, and the murderous glint in his eyes had only ever presented itself in him a handful of times, usually when a dire injustice was realized. I tightened my hand on his shoulder, shaking gently, attempting to free him of whatever had him so offensively frozen.

_Edward…_son, _what's wrong?_

And then he was gone, my hand still hanging in the air where his shoulder had just been. Again, the feeling of dread took hold in the pit of my stomach, and a premonition that something was about to go horribly wrong washed over me. Out of habit, I quickly glanced around to ensure we had not been seen on the abandoned street before racing after him immediately, pushing my speed to its limit, knowing it was all I could do to stop him—from _what_, I could not imagine.

He had not gone far, his scent overlapping that of the man who had passed us earlier. I could practically taste the fear in the air as I followed them into an alleyway behind several warehouses, my fear increasing in intensity until I rounded the corner and it spiked viciously, arresting all my movement instantaneously.

Time stilled, and all in one moment, an image that no human mind could bear to hold presented itself before me like a horrific work of art. Perfectly composed, beautifully executed, and terrifying beyond all I could comprehend.

Blood. Everywhere.

It was pooled thick on the ground, flowing into the gutters like a macabre sea of scarlet, splattered against the side of the building, small rivulets staining the porous brick as paint on a canvas.

About twenty feet in front of me, a man's midsection lay on the ground, blood pouring from the external iliac and subclavian arteries which, at one time, ran to his legs and arms respectively—limbs which had been savagely and carelessly severed. His chest was ripped open, pectoral muscles and ribs extracted, his heart exposed and still beating, albeit faintly. Perhaps the most disturbing dismemberment was that of the man's penis and testicles, also missing, but nowhere in sight. A clump of…_something_ lay beneath the organs' original locations, and I could only speculate that it was the remnants of the parts in question.

An arm lay at my feet, mangled and nearly unrecognizable, the various vessels, tendons, muscles, and bones now merely a jumbled, gelatinous mass. The only indicative feature was a thumb, still attached to the mixture by a thread of connective tissue, the entire digit still miraculously and fully intact.

The rest of his limbs had been pulverized in a similar manner, strewn about the alleyway along with various organs and tissue, as though he had been ripped from the inside out—which he quite literally had.

All but his head. It was still attached to the torso by the neck, eyes wide in terror and staring at his attacker…his _murderer_—

_Edward._

My son knelt beside what was left of the body, his teeth buried deep in the man's neck, body rocking slightly with the rhythm of his drinking, as it had so many times when he played the piano. The allegory made my stomach clench, feeling almost nauseous as he let out a deep moan of pleasure, the blood no doubt quenching the almost constant, nagging burn and setting every averaged sense alight with vigor. I watched, frozen in dread and complete shock as the heart slowed even more and then stopped altogether, arteries no longer bleeding as Edward sucked him dry.

When there was no more, I expected him to stand, realize what he had done, and break down as remorse and reality sank in. But to my utter dismay, he threw the remains aside and began lapping at the blood on the ground as a parched animal, clearly not himself any longer.

I snapped out of my stupor at the thought and leapt into action, running to him and pulling him from the ground, locking his arms behind him. His face turned to me as I attempted to restrain him, and I was terrified by the feral, onyx eyes that glared back at me. With a fierce snarl, he launched me backwards into the wall of the warehouse behind us, my body breaking instantly through the solid brick, landing on the floor of a storeroom, a few shelves in my path flying in every direction as I slid to a halt. I leapt at him again without thought, knowing that if I premeditated my actions he would inevitably win. I flew quickly, colliding with him from behind as he continued feeding from the pool of blood on the ground, our bodies skidding across the street. Edward's head smashed into the edge of the concrete building across the way as I pinned him to the ground.

"Edward, _stop this!_" I growled as he sought to throw me from him, but I gripped him tighter. The human blood in him was making him stronger by the second, and if I didn't get through to him soon, he would be unstoppable by any means I possessed. "This is your anger, Edward—not _you_. Whatever that man had done, or was going to do—"

He let out a particularly fierce struggle at this, and rolled. For a brief second, he was above me, his arms and legs thrashing freely before I somehow found the leverage to pin him beneath me once again.

"Edward, please—" He snarled, turning his head to the side, snapping, spitting venom and hissing at me in his fury. The thought that I had lost him for good flitted through my mind before I could stop it, and I felt the accompanying despair clawing its way through my being. I fought it, desperately clinging to the memories of my time with him over the past nine years—his constant companionship, his passion for music, and the all-encompassing love Esme and I held for him.

"_Son—_" I pleaded, struggling to think of anything but the momentary hopelessness of the situation. The word seemed to strike something within him and he stilled. Neither of us moved or breathed for several long seconds, and all was silent but for the distant sounds of traffic and pedestrians from the busier areas of town.

Edward took a quick, deep breath through his mouth, and with his right cheek pressed to the ground I could see him blink a few times, his eyes darting about as the black faded into a deepening red.

"Carlisle?" I sighed in relief, warily relaxing my grip on him, not entirely convinced of his full cognizance just yet.

"Son," I prefaced, trying to ground him as much as I could, "do you know where you are?" He quietly affirmed that he did, his eyes darting around a bit more, and he lifted his head slightly so he could look to the right—at the body, if it could be called that. _His kill_.

I released him, standing and helping him up, more as a precautionary measure than to offer any assistance. He faced his work full on, and I half expected him to groan, or even cry at the sight. But his reaction sent chills straight through me.

"Good riddance," he spat. I was unable to withhold the wild, incensed snarl that flew from my throat at the pride in his voice, but even the unspoken warning in the sound did nothing to remove the arrogant satisfaction obvious in his expression.

He laughed, the sound humorless and cold. "You didn't hear him, Carlisle. That disgusting excuse for a man was going to _rape_ his _daughter_ while his wife visits her dying mother," he screamed. "And he's done it before!"

"And that makes your actions any more acceptable, Edward?" I growled. "If the end justifies the meaning and rationale, then it's perfectly warranted? I fail to see how that makes you any better than he." I motioned to the desecrated corpse, but Edward ignored my remark, marching up to me with renewed ire, his face not an inch from my own. His hair was matted with blood and gore, the front of his shirt and pants soaked with the man's blood and ripped from our struggle. His face and chest was smeared with blood, some droplets falling from his sharp jawline to land on his tattered clothing.

He swallowed a mouthful of venom and licked his lips, which peeled back over his teeth as he snarled at me once more. "_You_ haven't had to listen to the thoughts of the vile reprobates in this town, Carlisle. _You_ don't know what they've done—what they're _going to do_," he grabbed my shirt tightly in his fist, expression fierce. "_I do_, and unlike you, I have the guts to do something about it."

So this was what had caused his agitated state over the past several months. The constant flow of degenerate thoughts in the large city had proved to be too much for him, and rather than seeking to separate himself from the immoral, filthy minds, he had allowed himself to wallow in them, letting his hatred for the offenders mount. To a degree, I felt responsible for having put him through this; but this reprehensible act of his, forged in fury and of a self-righteous sense of vindication, was no fault of mine, and in no way would I allow him to bring me into culpability.

The myriad of emotions that passed through me at his words were infinite and nearly indistinguishable—fear, shock, sorrow, anger, even _hate_. But through it all, I was able to maintain enough composure to realize that every second in which we stood arguing was another second closer to our possible discovery. I pushed him away from me roughly, fighting to keep my rising anger in check.

"Go home, and be sure you're not seen," I whispered, grappling for composure in an attempt to take control of the situation. Edward took a step back but remained seemingly unaffected by the gravity of his actions. He stood for a moment avoiding my gaze, almost in indecision, and I growled. "_Now!_"

His eyes met mine in surprise, a brief flash of sorrow peeking through before it was replaced with a smug acceptance and he turned toward home.

"Your life's work is saving people, Carlisle," he called behind him as he broke into a run. "But what if you're saving the wrong ones?"

He was out of sight within seconds, and I was again stunned by his words. It was certainly something I had thought about, but I quickly tucked it away, forcing myself to focus on the task at hand. Moving swiftly about the alleyway, I gathered what wood and paper I could find before returning to the sordid scene and placing the man's remains into a single pile with the tinder. The entire effort took me no more than five minutes, but I grew increasingly anxious with each passing moment.

Walking back into the storeroom, the sharp, unmistakable smell of alcohol assaulted me, leading me to several small barrels labeled _vinegar._ Had the situation been different, I may have laughed at the ridiculous attempt to conceal the bootlegged liquor, but there was no humor to be found in the grave task. I took two of the containers, covering the entire area with the liquid, including the floor of the storeroom; if the scene was to be believable, there needed to be an explanation for the hole in the wall. Having no matches, I instead grabbed two bricks from the rubble, creating a spark from which the whole area was soon ablaze.

After watching for a few minutes to ensure the body was satisfactorily consumed, I ran home with haste, leaving the car forgotten for now. I could only imagine what I must look like, covered in blood, the back of my clothing shredded from my struggle with Edward, and I could not risk being seen.

Charging through every abandoned lane and navigating the streets like a frantic maze, my senses were piqued for every sign of human life within a mile radius while my mind reeled with the prospective aftermath of the night's events. My instincts told me this would not end well, but I cleaved to any ounce of hope I still possessed that we could get through this—together.

But upon arriving home, that hope disappeared. Almost before I had stepped foot onto our property, Esme was in my arms, clutching me tightly and crying my name. Before she had even spoken a word, I knew what had happened.

"He's gone, Carlisle," she sobbed. "He's gone."

* * *

1927 became 1928.

1929 became 1930.

Somehow, in such an unremarkable manner, four full years passed, until 1931 found our lives wholly unchanged. Even with Esme at my side, our unmatched, complementary love for each other keeping us strong and secure, we were incomplete.

There was no call, no letters—not one bit of news from any major city that might have even hinted at his location. It was comforting, at best, to know that he was at least remaining secretive in his rebellious, errant actions; but the thousands of questions concerning his new life continued to plague Esme's mind, and not even within my once-sheltering arms could she find the balm needed to soothe her aching heart. Though she clung to faith in his sagacity, believing that he would return, I doubted that the life he had chosen would not entirely consume him.

Whether or not he was carrying out his self-proclaimed vendetta against the criminal minds of the world, the very prospect was chilling to the core. My greatest fear was for his sanity—for the permanent burden of guilt he would unconsciously heap upon himself for his actions, both bygone and yet unfulfilled. During my time in Volterra, I had seen a good number of nearly insane vampires come before the three brothers, often in such a state due to an inability to come to terms with our existence or to cope with an unusual ability. Each were driven to unpardonable acts of stupidity by their madness and executed without so much as a word in their defense. I could only pray that Edward would not meet such an end.

Esme was determined in the hope that he would not.

Shrugging my coat on as I left for the day, I took one final look around the lobby of the hospital. A few patients remained from the overnight shift, waiting at tables and sitting crumpled in chairs and sprawled across the benches along the walls. True to Edward's prediction, violent crimes had only increased as Rochester's population grew, meaning a larger demand on the hospital's already overloaded staff, and I'd taken on an extra two shifts per week to assist.

Unfortunately, this meant more time away from my beloved Esme, whose seemingly limitless love and encouragement over the past four years had been my very foundation: it was her gentle voice every time I walked in the door that calmed my anxiousness; her soft embrace as we united—creating, renewing, and making love—that melted my fears; and her warm smile, albeit tinged with the slightest hint of sadness, that soothed the raging beast of sorrow within me.

At the thought of my sweet, wonderful wife waiting for me, I was even more impatient to get home. With a polite farewell to the receptionist at the door, I raced through the doors and down the steps, actually feeling the need to conscientiously slow my strides to the car. An almost elated anticipation rippled through me as I began the arduously slow drive home, a sensation I hadn't experienced since…since Edward's presence in our home.

I was baffled, to say the least. Perhaps Esme's loving care had finally broken through the bereft despair to which I had been prisoner over the past four years. Never would anything be able to replace the deep love that had bound me to Edward, but for the first time in almost four years—approximately 34,164 hours—I felt strangely at peace.

Driving up to the house, I saw Esme's face in the living room window. Even shadowed as it was, I could see the brightness of her eyes, a joyful, beaming smile lighting up every one of her features. Was she, too, feeling the almost foreign, blissful tranquility that I was completely at a loss to explain?

Practically ripping the handle off the door in my haste, I leapt from the vehicle with every intent to express my incomprehensible ardor for her the very moment I had her in my arms. I sucked in a breath, prepared to shout her name to the heavens—

And I froze.

A scent on the air swept across my tongue, unmistakable in its familiarity.

_Impossible._

My insanity became a very probable diagnosis at this point; my sudden, carefree happiness could indeed be merely a symptom. I closed my eyes against the fear, not wanting to have imagined it, and drew in a deep breath through my nose. Again, I was nearly overwhelmed by the potency of the scent, but more that that...was it's _freshness._

Before I had time to process that thought, I heard the front door fly open, my eyes following suit at the surprising noise.

_I wasn't insane._

There he stood in the doorway of our home, bronze hair predictably mussed, his eyes wide and jaw taut with an indescribable tension. _Was he afraid of me?_ He seemed as unable to move as I, arm still outstretched from having just flung the door off its hinges, and though I was unable to keep my eyes from academically assessing his form, my heart leapt with the knowledge that he was, _truly_—

_Home_.

Out of my peripheral vision, I saw Esme appear behind Edward, her magnificent, indescribably beauty now fully emanating from within as she grinned at us. Slowly, so as not to startle him, she put her hand on his back, pushing lightly in encouragement. Centimeter by centimeter, his body began to lean forward, and I could feel mine mirror the movement, an almost palpable pull between us. Even so, his eyes continued to scan me, almost suspiciously, though a deep longing was at the forefront of his expression.

Beyond conscious thought, an unfettered sob ripped from my chest, echoing in the air around us like a chorus. My arms reached for him of their own accord, while simultaneously, my heart cried—

_Edward! My son!_

Moving faster than I could follow, Edward suddenly had his arms around me, face buried in my shoulder, weeping as I pulled him tighter to me, my own eyes closing against the wave of emotion that rushed over us.

_My son, my son…_ my mind chanted over and over as I held his shaking frame, our sobs now entirely indistinguishable. I didn't think it was possible to contain the joy and utter relief I felt at seeing him again, any past feeling of anger or hurt dissolved at the complete brokenness I saw in his eyes—his _scarlet_ eyes.

At my thought, a choked gasp escaped him and he made to push me away. But I held him even closer, unwilling and unready to let him go, quietly reassuring him that we didn't need to talk about it just yet. For now, I was content to simply bask, for a few days, in the completeness that surrounded our home now that he had chosen to return.

He relaxed, if only slightly, crying noiselessly as I quieted my thoughts, thinking nothing but of _our_great love for him. I opened my eyes at the thought of Esme and found her sitting on the front steps, gazing at us across the lawn with the most peaceful expression on her face. Looking into her eyes, almost shimmering with the intense ebullience behind them, I knew exactly what was in her heart.

We were together again. Our _family _was together.

* * *

To say that everything was just as it had been before would be an unmitigated lie. Edward was still himself, to a degree; but that self had become…_translated_. I speculated that many of the habits and skills he had learned in living with me had been distorted, much like his perspective on life. His control was still clearly intact, but had been used to choose his human prey rather than to resist them. Until the human blood was completely out of his system, a timeline for which I had no previous knowledge, he would be susceptible to relapse.

I sighed, leaning forward over my desk to rest my head in my hands. It was easier to see my son as a patient in recovery than to cope with the ramifications; the diagnosis could perhaps be more encouraging than the prognosis, or treatment. But this wasn't a case from which I could afford to remain emotionally distant. In order for Edward to improve, for any of us to move forward, he would need _me_.

But therein lay the majority of the issue—the three of us had been satisfied to let the issues lie untouched for the past week, rejoicing in the simple fact that our son was home and safe. But he was still hurting far more than either Esme or I understood.

I wanted to heal him completely—but I didn't know how.

Esme came from where she had been looking out the window and stood behind me, resting her arms on my shoulders and running her fingers through my hair. The action caused her to gently cradle my head, and I leaned back into her slightly as her lips pressed down after her finger's soothing movements.

"It will be all right," she sighed, though her voice betrayed her uncertainty. I smiled at her willful courage despite my agitated state, nodding lightly in hopes that the action might evoke some genuine optimism within me. I heard her laugh softly before she pulled my head backwards to plant inverted kisses on my lips, mumbling quiet words of encouragement every so often.

The sudden, low sound of Edward clearing his throat came from the doorway of my study, startling us both from our amorous embrace instantaneously.

He cocked an eyebrow, head tilting slightly in question. "Is this a bad time?"

I smiled at him, recognizing a bit of the old Edward in his teasing remark. "Of course not. We were just waiting for you." I stood, taking Esme's hand and following Edward into the living room. My office felt far too formal for the conversation we were about to have—I wanted to see him as my son, not my patient, and that would be best accomplished when I wasn't sitting behind a desk.

Esme sat on the couch, looking pointedly at Edward and patting the spot beside her in invitation, and I watched with barely contained happiness as he accepted. He sat leaning forward in an almost uncomfortable manner, arms braced on his knees. Even so, Esme wrapped a supportive arm around his back, grinning at him as he looked away, a renewed expression of pain across his face. I wondered briefly if he would prefer it if I sat beside him, but he shook his head.

"The chair." He motioned to the armchair perpendicular to them, and I immediately saw the advantage of the position for him—I wouldn't be facing them directly.

He met my concerned gaze. "Please," he appealed.

I acquiesced, understanding how hard this would be, even knowing my own failures as he did. And Esme—she undoubtedly wanted to sit beside him for comfort; to be for him now what she could not be while he was away. But I knew that physical contact was something she needed; to be corporeally near the object of her love was as necessary as feeding, and having been apart from Edward was stressful to her in more ways than one. Yet now, from the look on her face, the past four years of tension were melting away with every moment she was able to hold him, and nothing could have made me happier.

But as I looked into Edward's eyes, the pain and brokenness still evident, I knew why the chair was so important to him. He was reaffirming his respect for me, as the head of our family. And more than that, he was actually _pleading_ for me to take that place once more—to be the leader.

His eyes fell downcast at my thought, and he nodded meekly as I fought the instinct to hold him again, instead honoring his request and sitting as he had indicated. Silence fell over the room as we waited to hear our son's grief, my heart longing to shoulder his burden, if for no other reason than that he might be spared some of his obvious self-loathing.

Edward began slowly, recounting his journey from Rochester, each successive tale taking us to cities across the entire United States and southern Canada as he hunted, feeding ruthlessly from warranted criminals and searching out those who had yet to become offenders in a preemptive strike. His ability gave him the advantage, but his conscience would not allow him to continue unchecked. I couldn't help but see the logic in his reasoning, his actions having indubitably saved hundreds, if not thousands of innocent victims.

"I know the things I've done are beyond unforgivable," he trailed off, thrusting his hands into his hair and pulling in anguish, his face to the floor. "They are nothing shy of despicable. If you actually knew the details of the heinous actions that have governed my very existence since I left…"

"I'm sure I can imagine," I bluntly cut him off, the memory of his first crime lingering briefly in my mind before vanishing under the loving severity of my forgiveness. He winced and sat up stiffly, shame written across his features as he attempted to lean away from Esme. Gently, she held him even tighter in reassurance, the embrace also effectively discouraging him from running away, should he be considering it.

And for a moment, it seemed as though he actually _was_ deliberating it. The shadowed, unguarded fear in his eyes caused my chest to constrict painfully, and Esme gave me a distraught look, her face the mirror-image of the emotions churning within me. His eyes closed then, shuttering our window to his heart and steeling his own faltering expression.

"You don't know the half of it—either of you," he choked out, even as his voice remained smooth and even. "After everything I've learned from our way of life, I became the embodiment of the very evil you've fought against for over two and a half centuries. I _chose_ and _embraced_ that malevolence, and it came all too easily. As I wrenched each human's life from them in heartless malice, I inherited their final thoughts—family, friends: people who would never see them again, who they loved and were _loved by_."

He took a few deep breaths, clearly choosing his next words with great care. As his eyes opened, he looked between Esme and I in complete…wonder, almost.

"I murdered a man before your very eyes, Carlisle, yet you welcomed me into your arms without question." I nodded in absolute agreement. There was never any room in my heart for anger or feelings of betrayal. He turned to my wife. "And Esme—even when I came home that night without Carlisle, soaked in human blood and telling you the most reprehensible things, you still held me in my humiliation upon my return, ironing a fresh pair of clothes and drawing me a bath as if I had been the victim all along."

He made a sound of disgust before falling into a pensive silence. I couldn't understand what he meant in divulging all of this. These things we already knew, and had forgiven. This he knew. Was he hoping we would suddenly find it in ourselves to become reproachful?

His expression fell, and he all but whispered, "Could you truly, honestly…_love_ the so-called son who became the very likeness of your only enemy?

I answered without pause. "In no way does any of that mean you are beyond pardon, Edward. You know beyond the smallest shadow of a doubt that Esme and I love you regardless of what you have done, or even what you will do. The very fact that you have come home speaks volumes of your contrition, and we want nothing more than to leave this in the past, where it belongs."

He was quiet for a moment, considering my words. "I _am_ sorry for having disappointed you, yes. No matter how many of the evil _bastards_ I preyed upon, I found no fulfillment in it; the overwhelming desire for justice was not slaked with my bloodlust, no matter how high the count grew. But I am _not_ sorry that they no longer walk the earth."

I sensed Esme's eyes upon me, and as I met her gaze, I was taken aback by the fierce determination and strength within her ordinarily soft, golden orbs. She seemed to be searching my face for something, almost as though she was gauging my reaction to Edward's words. Whatever it was, she seemed to have found it, her entire demeanor suddenly bursting with boldness as she turned to speak.

"I think we can both agree with you about that, Edward; you know _I've_ seen my fair share of injustice in this world." His face still remained hidden from view, but he nodded in acknowledgement—and perhaps more, for even I could hear the unspoken _but_ following her statement.

A few moments of comfortable silence passed, as the three of us considered her words. Esme was right of course; I did agree with her. But inadvertently, she had also hit on something that had been the subject of many of my tumultuous thoughts since Edward's departure.

_Your life's work is saving people, Carlisle, but what if you're saving the wrong ones?_

I heard his intake of breath at my recollection, his body stilling altogether as I released the conclusion of my four years' earnest pursuit of an answer to his question.

_It is not for us to decide who lives and dies, even as perfectly suited for the task as we would seem to be. Such a weighty responsibility is too great for any member of this world: our souls are not meant to bear it._

Ever so slowly, Edward raised his head to meet my gaze, his vermillion-tinted eyes wide.

"There _is_ an almost unbearable guilt on my head now. The very thought of being responsible for another self-serving act of retribution makes me feel truly…sick," he genuinely admitted. However, the words sounded hauntingly familiar, as though he had pulled them straight from my own mind. "But you know that I cannot agree that we have souls, not when there is so little proof."

Esme and I shared a quick, knowing look. This had, indeed, been a point of much debate throughout our years together, but now was not the time to press the issue. We were at a turning point, and I chose to move the conversation forward.

"I cannot convey how grateful I am for your veracity concerning your absence, Edward. It has all been said, and I feel it can now be left behind us, never to be brought to light again." I paused, Esme seconding my statement. Edward was still again, not a breath to give away any indication that he had even heard me.

Unable to bear the distance between us any longer, I stood, crossing to stand before him, and placed my hands on his shoulders, causing him to meet my gaze. As Esme placed her free hand on top of mine, I felt the connection between the three of us more strongly than ever before. In that moment, the very air was alive with the strength and security that radiated from my small family, and I had never felt more whole. But there was one piece missing.

"The only thing left is to know where you stand, Edward. We will not force you into a life that is not of your own choosing."

With an immediate certainty that warmed me through and through, my son spoke without hesitation.

"I stand with you, Carlisle—_my father_."

* * *

We had made amends, and consequently, our lives returned to some semblance of normalcy. Edward had once again enrolled in courses for the Fall, assuming that the five months prior to their commencement would be enough time to rein in his inconstant control. However, his habit of almost constant self-reproach did nothing to improve his disposition—he remained subtly despondent, finding little pleasure in the activities he had once greatly enjoyed. His piano remained his one sanctuary, the music allowing him to transcend the routine cares from the swarm of others' thoughts. He certainly had enough of his own.

Even as Esme began speculating about renovations and learning as much as she could about construction, her true project seemed to be finding a solution to Edward's gloominess. I had several theories of my own. The first was that, in changing his diet after four years of human blood, the slight thirst perpetually left un-sated by the hunt would undoubtedly cause a great deal of stress. It was almost as though he became a newborn all over again, and the frustration of knowing what he was missing would continue to take its toll on him, physically and mentally.

My second theory, one I found to be equally as likely, was that he just needed to find his greater purpose in life, as I had with medicine. It wasn't until after decades into my new existence as a vampire, of traveling around the world and studying every conceivable subject, that I found my calling. Though, I amended, it now seemed but a secondary occupation to the inexplicable completion found in my beautiful wife, and proceeded to spend entire days proving to her the validity of my declaration.

It was from this point that Esme formed her own theory: that Edward might not find fulfillment in life without someone by his side, as I had in her. Initially, I disagreed; but the more I thought about how much Esme had changed me, the more it became all but impossible for me to see my existence as anything but blessed. From that standpoint, her logic was indisputable. Even when it had been only Edward and I there was never this unobstructed view of eternity, a deepened desire to see the good in the world, even when things seemed to be at their worst.

And so they did seem.

Much to my chagrin, two years later, the situation in Rochester had become as Edward had inadvertently predicted. Within the first week of 1933 alone, dozens of my own patients, some no more than seven or eight years old, had been admitted after being viciously attacked, beaten, or raped. Many of them had sustained such terrible injuries that there was nothing to do but make them as comfortable as possible in their final moments. Young men and women were being murdered long before their prime, so much wasted life in the city that it was maddening. Arrant, gratuitous death and violence was widespread, and it was all I could do to not lose heart entirely.

I turned at the receptionist's voice as I left, routinely bidding her a solemn goodnight in return. Across the room, the clock on the wall marked eight-thirty in the evening, two hours beyond the end of my scheduled day shift. It had been long and gruesome—out of eleven critical cases that day, none had survived. I had failed to save even one of them.

As I turned to the door, I found my gaze captured by the plaque that hung beneath the clock. It had been there from the medical center's opening in 1925, but never had its words seemed truer than they were now, six years after their conception.

_HENRY ALVAH STRONG  
HELEN GRIFFEN STRONG_

_May the kindliness  
and human sympathy  
which characterized  
their lives continue  
forever through the  
ministry of this hospital._

_Kindliness and human sympathy_: two traits that had characterized my practice from its very beginning, which, at the moment, seemed entirely useless.

To a degree, I knew that there was only so much that I could have done. Even with the advantage of my enhanced senses, the human body was impossibly fragile, and the severity of the attacks left no possibility of recovery.

I was in desperate need of my Esme. It was all she could do to keep my spirits from sinking over the past few weeks, and even Edward, in his own downhearted state, did all he could to cheer me up. But tonight, I feared, I would be beyond consolation.

I stepped outside, the lucent night accentuated by the host of glowing stars, and I allowed myself a moment of pause as I walked to the car. Looking up at the vast expanse above, I felt truly weary in my existence. At that moment, I wanted nothing more than to hold my wife and drown in the love we had for each other, leaving the ephemeral worries of the world behind. I could rest my cares in her arms, allow her to soothe my troubles with her own healing touch, and lose myself as I worshiped her body in the deep, unrelenting love that bound us in safety whenever we were together.

I mentally shook myself from my stupor as I realized how entirely still I had become, the feeling strange and foreign to me after so many years of practiced, habitual movement. I breathed deeply, feeling the fullness in my chest as my lungs filled with the unnecessary oxygen—

And stopped breathing again, finding the air sweet and thickened, heavily perfumed with the all-too-familiar scent...

_Blood. A deathly concentration of human blood._


	14. Intended

_I still own neither Twilight, nor Carlisle. Though I had a dream that I was Kristen Stewart's stunt double. It was strange...I didn't even lay myself as an offering in Peter Facinelli's trailer!_

_To my amazing beta, bananapancakes07: there aren't enough RiffTrax in the world to measure up to your hilarity and magnificence. If I were Carlisle, I would totally want you to be my Esme. You thoroughly rock my socks off, and I am, quite literally, barefoot!_

_This whole chapter, I struggled with the question: what the hell would possess Carlisle to change Rosalie? It's not even really inferred in the books, like it is for Edward, Esme, and Emmett. But I think I succeeded in answering it. My beta said to warn you to keep the tissues handy._

_**And a further warning: this chapter contains a fairly graphic depiction of the injuries Rosalie sustains from her rape. I understand that this is a subject of a very sensitive nature, so I will not be offended in the least if you would choose to skip a large portion of it, marked by a double-space in the text on either end, and/or forego this chapter altogether. **_

* * *

_Blood.__ A deathly concentration of human blood._

The scent was drifting on the air, but even without the cool breeze off the lake, it would have been just as potent. It couldn't have been more than two miles from my current location. My hand tightened on the handle of my bag and my body moved without thought, and my senses carried me northwest, toward the source of the spilled life-essence. As always, the fragrance called to me like an urgent siren of distress, composed of the salt, sugars, and hormones in the blood, and weighted with the heavy iron of its hemoglobin.

But it was the distinct flavor of fear laced delicately within the aroma—the alarming combination of adrenaline and cortisol—that pressed me forward with renewed exigency toward the closest residential area of town. The intensity of the stress-induced hormones in the blood left little doubt in my mind as to what type of injuries I would be dealing with. I had seen and smelled it countless times throughout my experience—particularly within the past few years—

_Either someone was being brutally attacked…or I was too late._

Subconsciously, I tightened my grip on my bag in renewed determination as voices—only a filtered drone in my mind since I had left the hospital—suddenly became the center of my concentration. Listening intently, I moved into a full run, another part of my mind automatically watching out for any possible witnesses as I focused on the task at hand. I could hear and smell five men near what I could only now assume was the _scene_—their footsteps were staggered and irregular as they laughed and cavorted their way, incredibly drunk for a mere eight-thirty on a Friday night.

"Shit, it's cold," one of them slurred while the sounds of someone retching and heaving brought on a round of laughter and scuffling. "What month is it, anyways? Janur—Febrery—remind me to keep my clothes on next time…" The same voice continued to stumble over his words while the rest of the group seemed unaware of him, instead maintaining a conversation already in progress.

"I con…concur! It's been fun, boys," someone yelled. "Hey Royce—Frank here thinks we should do this again sometime." A chorus of garbled agreements echoed in the otherwise quiet streets.

_Royce? As in, Royce _King_?_ I wondered. The name was practically synonymous with the City of Rochester itself; though, I couldn't imagine that a member of the wealthy, prestigious King family would subject himself to public association with such a gang of malefactors.

"Pipe down, you mutts," came the equally loud, slurred reply—from Royce, I assumed. "Just because you all just had the best screw of your lives doesn't mean you hafta go an' share it with the world!"

A hiss flew from my mouth as I heard their raucous objections, and I felt my muscles tighten in anger as my pace quickened again. _They had attacked a woman? _I shuddered at the thought of what injuries she must have sustained in order to account for such a high volume of blood loss—the very idea caused me to push myself even harder as I ducked between houses and dashed down the abandoned streets. A light snow was beginning to fall and the temperature was dropping by the minute—I would need to get her to the hospital as quickly as I could.

"Aww—you saw me, ol' boy," a new voice answered him, this one with a slight southern drawl. "I may be a mutt, but tonight, I was a purebred stallion!" With a rebel-like yell, I heard the rustle of cloth and scuff of shoes, as though he had leapt from the ground. The sound of a body hitting the pavement followed not half a second later, and an unreserved curse proceeded from the man.

A roar of laughter went up as the group turned south and began walking in my direction—they were just rounding the corner in front of me, and we would soon cross paths if I didn't move west in my journey, and come out on the street behind them, as they left. If I had any chance of attending this poor woman with whatever help I could offer, I couldn't allow myself to be seen by them. Large numbers of men were known to organize in such cases and testify that someone else was to blame; for lack of clear evidence, they would be acquitted. And I was in no position to testify—I couldn't afford to draw attention to myself.

Yet as they came into view, I closed my mouth tightly against a snarl that threatened to escape, my lips fighting to curl up and expose my now venom-coated teeth when my senses detected far more than the normal, acidic effects of alcohol upon their scents.

Each one was covered in _that fear_that was painting the air with panic; blood was clinging in varied amounts to each of their clothing in soaked, darkened patches on their pants, and streaked across their shirts and jackets as though written with jagged, crimson claws. But beyond that was the scent of sweet-and-salty tang of male ejaculate—not one of them was clean of it.

Fighting the rising anger within me at the heinous crime I knew they had committed, I turned left, ducking between two houses, slinking easily through the yards towards the epicenter of the bloodshed. However, even as I drew within feet of my critical destination, the next words to reach my ears—uttered by yet another of the revolting, inebriated gang—nearly made me pause in horror.

"But maybe we shouldn'ta killed her, Royce—I mean, where'n hell are you gonna find a new bride so fast?"

Everyone in town knew of Royce King's son's soon-to-be royal wedding, and almost everyone in town had been invited to the spectacle; though, thankfully, we had been overlooked. But I didn't allow myself to pause to think about the now-known identity of the woman—or body—I was about to attend, for fear of allowing the already raging emotions within me to cloud my sober judgment.

Shooting through a final yard, I emerged to see most of the intoxicated group off to my right, careening around the corner of the dimly-lit street while a couple of them somberly navigated the apparently uneven sidewalk. I fought the urge to go after them, the outrage at their opprobrious revelry close to consuming me, but the delectable, yet grievous scent that had drawn me to this place overwhelmed the emotion, staying my feet and turning my gaze to the left.

There, in the gutter beneath a broken and burned-out streetlamp, lay what could only be described as the remnants of a woman, crumpled and motionless. I hesitated for only a moment, realizing instantly that the men had been wrong—she was most certainly _not_ dead.

As I raced to her side, I realized that my initial suspicions had been most dreadfully confirmed—that, indeed, _had_been Royce King the Second, which meant that the woman before me was his intended—

_Rosalie Hale_.

We had only been in each others' company perhaps once or twice, but there were few in town who did not know of the illustrious Hales. No more than perhaps the upper-middle class, the family was seen as thinking better of themselves than they ought; their own fortunate escape from the hard times of the economic depression seemed to have brought about this irreverently haughty attitude, and it earned them no small amount of disparaging contempt from the majority of the population with whom they had contact.

As with every town in which I had lived, my family and I remained as discreet and uninvolved as possible, and we had never even formally been introduced to Rosalie—her father had once pointed her out to us across the room at an informal medical scholarship fundraiser. She had noticed us and stared, as per usual, though immediately regarded us with an unnaturally pointed indifference.

Edward had noticed my observation and remarked with almost rehearsed casualty, "She's of the most typical mindset, of those whom society deems the most beautiful: wholly devoted to her own welfare; intelligent, but chooses naïveté for popularity and convenience. She clings with strangled desperation to that which will find her the most favor in the eyes of others, foolishly disregarding her true potential for the decaying, fleeting prizes and trappings of this world."

--

But all this information was entirely useless to me as I knelt to examine her, checking her vitals and responsiveness while doing a visual speculation as to the severity of her injuries. Here there was no selfish ambitions or narcissistic involvement—she was just another fragile life in desperate need of my aid. Her eyes were shut tightly, but they snapped open to dart about frantically at my cold touch on her cheek; matted and tangled hair splayed around her head, and nearly every inch of her naked form was covered with blood, dirt, and semen—except her face. Apart from the blood trickling from the side of her mouth and down from her hairline, as large portions of hair had been seemingly ripped out from the roots, her features were entirely untouched.

Her heart rate was rapid but thready, a pulse deficit indicating that the organ was not beating strongly enough to pump blood effectively to her extremities; her respiration was shallow and quickened, and her body's temperature was subnormal. It was difficult to tell the cause of her dilated pupils, as it could have been from either the frigid nighttime or a blatant indication of shock, yet her eyes followed mine with great interest. She seemed alert and responsive, though unable or unwilling to communicate. Still in the early stages, she was undeniably going into shock—hypovolemic, from the amount of blood flowing from between her thighs.

"Miss Hale," I began, gently feeling along her neck for any possible fractures. True to most crimes of this nature, the hyoid bone in her trachea had been posteriorly fractured, hand-sized bruises already forming around her neck from an attempted strangulation—or an attempted silencing. Similar bruises marred her upper body and limbs, consistent with having been forced into various positions. Carefully tilting her head back while supporting her vertebrae, her breathing eased slightly as her airway was opened further, reducing the strain caused by the fractured bone. Slight whimpers began to form with the action, and I knew she was at least partially cognizant.

"_Rosalie_," I appealed, taking her hand, the tips of her fingers raw and bleeding. "I'm Dr. Carlisle Cullen, and I want to help you—but I need you to somehow tell me if you can hear me." As I spoke, I used what bandages I had in my bag for the deeper teeth and nail punctures along her arms and breasts. She squeezed my hand almost imperceptibly, and I did my best to comfort her as I moved quickly into light palpitation of her ribs and abdomen, and continued down until I reached her pubic bone. At this she let out a strangled cry, her eyes audibly snapping shut.

"Miss Hale, I need to examine…the extent of your injuries." I chose my words carefully. The immediate reaction to pressure on the organs of her lower abdomen was expected, but the inflammation and _fluid_ I had felt surrounding her organs was absolutely abnormal, even with the assault she had sustained. She was once again watching my every move, the smallest hint of fear creeping into in her gaze, and I needed to keep her calm. "I assure you this will take no time at all, and I will be as gentle as possible."

I was shocked to find her watching me with...an almost irritated visage as I worked. Although it was not unusual to see expressions of agony or terror in the patients eyes before the dull listlessness of shock took over, the look of _annoyance_ clear in her stare was something I had never come across. With words of consolation as she weakly tensed, I rapidly, but carefully, spread her legs further apart, grabbing a roll of gauze from my bag and wiping the excess blood, urine, and semen from between her thighs—but it was useless, as more blood and fluid was seeping from internal hemorrhages of her vagina, cervix, and rectum through the severely lacerated vaginal orifice and external anal sphincter. I couldn't properly examine her without the aid of anesthesia, for she was already in enough discomfort and fading quickly into shock. Even with my surgical expertise, there was little to be done to salvage her reproductive organs—all I could do was find a way to stem the bleeding until I could get her to the hospital.

But there was more here—an injury deeper than anything I could speculate by gentle touch or even smell. I closed my eyes, listening closely to the movement of her organs within her lower abdomen, as slight as it was with how little her diaphragm distended with her shallow breaths. There was the tinest, almost inaudible noise with each of her inhalations, almost like blood flowing from a wound, but closer to the consistency of water…

My eyes snapped open, and a brief feeling of surprise swept over me as I met Rosalie's almost skeptical gaze. I didn't think it possible. I had only seen such an occurrence once in all my years of surgery, and only in a young girl, but the signs were unmistakable—

The men had somehow managed to tear through the posterior wall of her vagina, puncturing the perineum and entering her peritoneal cavity, forcing blood and whatever else was present into the space with their violent thrusting, and causing irreparable damage to her internal organs. The previously unidentified substance mixed with the blood and semen that was flowing from her was _peritoneal fluid._

There was no way to save her. Even if I did manage to get her to the hospital and perform a successful transfusion while removing or repairing her hemorrhaging organs—which, in and of itself would be a feat of impossible measure—the damage to her perineum was irreversible, and the amount of shock induced by her injuries would undoubtedly claim her before I could prep for surgery. I would lose patient number twelve tonight.

--

_No_, _not another!_ my mind screamed. _There must be something else you can do. There has to be another way._

And in an instant, there was. Before my mind was completely made up, I had her wrapped in my coat and in my arms, her head carefully cradled against my chest as I rushed with all haste toward home.

All at once, Rosalie Hale became more than just another patient I had to save—more than just another woman fading into the quiet death of shock and blood loss. I may never have known her personally, but public and family opinion aside, she didn't deserve to die this way. _No one_ deserved to die in such a way. Even if there had been some hope for her recovery, she would have, most likely, lost a court case against her attackers, ending up ruined and alone. Even Edward had commented on her unique potential, though the point was made through the theory that she was far too self-absorbed. Still, such promise in this young woman was far too rare to be wasted because of the wanton, greedy actions of others.

Rosalie whimpered in my arms, and I quickly ensured that she wasn't being jostled by our flight. She wasn't, but her vitals were weakening, and I felt a burst of energy as I neared our home. I knew why I had brought her here—I couldn't bring yet another person into our lives without my family's consent; it had nearly destroyed my relationship with Edward the last time such a split-second decision had been made. I was looking forward to having their support in it this time, to know that my decision was the right one.

But as I entered the back door, I realized that my focus had been so centered on Rosalie that I hadn't picked up on an important observation.

Esme and Edward were not here.

Since his return, Esme had taken often him on weekend hunts, serving the dual purpose of helping him curb his bloodlust from weekly classes, which were packed with humans, and allowing them to become better acquainted with each other. She secretly referred to them as _bonding weekends_, claiming that I already had a three-year head start on her and she wished to catch up as quickly as possible. Of course, it did not remain a secret to Edward of her intentions with their hunts, but he agreed with little reluctance. His animosity toward her had softened immeasurably since his return from his...absence, now seeming more than willing to spend ample amounts of time in Esme's company.

This was undoubtedly the cause of their vacancy, and I found myself at a loss for what was to be done. I must have been quite the sight, standing as a statue in the kitchen with Rosalie's failing body in my arms, her blood and various other substances covering us both and dripping onto the floor. I knew what I was being called to do, somehow, though unsure if I could do it without my wife and son's presence.

Even as my heart and mind continued to debate the proper course of action, I brought her into our room upstairs, turning on the lights for her sake, and laying her down upon the mattress. Her eyes cracked open a bit and she moaned as the light hit her fully dilated eyes, causing her to promptly squeeze them shut again. I looked around the room in utter helplessness, as though an unconscious part of me was pleading for the companionship and support of Esme and Edward.

The thought of my son suddenly sparked a somewhat dormant memory, causing a conversation I'd recently had with Esme to replay in my mind. It was last week, after a grueling shift at the hospital in which victim after victim had been brought into my care, dozens of life-saving surgeries ordered and performed. I knew my deep agony over the heartless tragedies, coupled with the discouragement at Edward's seemingly endless, brooding melancholy was written plainly on my face as I arrived home. Esme was quick to wrap her arms around me and silently relieve some of my weariness with the touch of her soothing, curative lips; even as I lifted her, wrapping her more securely around me as I walked us to our room, she whispered nothing but affirmations of her love and encouraging hopes for the future.

My deepest, most devoted love had known without words that I needed her—to be lost in her body and melded with her mind, to make and share in our ever-increasing love that was a safe harbor from a world of strife and pain. Hours passed as my wife and I forgot all but the refuge we found in each other, never speaking a word except to renew our oaths of love, and worship each other in our passion.

It had been over six hours later, in the few moments of serenity and clarity that came with having briefly sated our almost endless need for each other that Esme finally broke our comfortable, secluded reality. She was curled up in my arms on the floor of our room as I sat leaning against the bed, her head resting on my left shoulder as she nuzzled and occasionally licked at my neck, hand drawing intricate patterns—perhaps her next project, I thought with amusement—across my chest.

"Maybe this is what Edward needs," she sighed. "He needs to be completed; and there's only so much that the things of this world can offer."

I turned my head, tightening my arms around her and caressing her forehead with my lips. She did have a point, but I also knew how much Edward would reject the idea. Even as he knew the inexplicable _perfection_ Esme and I had in each other, he refused to even attempt to hope for it in himself. In his eyes, he had committed the most unforgivable sins, and would seek the rest of his existence to rectify it—and was resolute that he would never deserve happiness. I reminded Esme of as much, but she was unshakable in her resolve.

"I know that nothing you or I could say would ever change his mind, stubborn as he is, but maybe…" she brought her head from my shoulder, lifting it so she could look me in the eyes. The unwavering optimism in her gaze set her already molten, gold orbs on fire. "Just_ maybe_ there is someone out there who can. And _will_." As usual, her confidence was irresistibly contagious, and I found myself taken in, though immediately distracted as she proceeded to attack me in her joy.

The sound of Rosalie whimpering brought me back to the present, the sound so weak that it would have been inaudible to a human's ears. Her body was shaking lightly now, heart rate dropping to a dangerous level as she continued to bleed out, her shock escalating. She was losing consciousness, and I didn't have much time to deliberate the issue. Edward aside, I knew Esme would welcome her as a daughter, if she chose to stay with us.

_He needs to be completed_, Esme's words echoed in my thoughts.

It didn't escape my notice how, once again, someone had been placed into my path almost by fate. If she had been attacked at any other time, I wouldn't have found her. The timing was inescapably providential.

_Could it be that Rosalie was meant for Edward?_

I shook the thought aside as I sat down beside her, realizing that if Edward ever knew that to be one of the deciding factors, he would never, in any way, accept her into our company. But I _had_ decided at last, beyond any doubt what I was about to do. I prayed for forgiveness, from whomever would give it, as my teeth sank into Rosalie's neck, piercing the carotid artery and jugular vein in simultaneous incisions.

She screamed, predictably, though her voice was horse, undoubtedly from having been used in a similar fashion over the past few hours. I allowed the venom to flow freely from me, clinging to the quieting thoughts of my dear family as the taste of human blood coated my tongue, igniting my throat in burning flames and tempting me with the promise of satiation. But it was focusing on calculation that kept me grounded this time, working around Rosalie's injuries in my mind to determine if the amount of venom that had been given to both Edward and Esme would be adequate, considering the extent of her blood loss.

After about thirty seconds, I pulled away and ensured the wound was closed, having heard her heart strengthen in its contractions as expected. However, due to the inadequate volume of blood in her body, I suddenly became fearful that the venom may not spread throughout her system efficiently enough to both instigate the change _and_ heal her nearly fatal injuries. Even as she shrieked and her midsection convulsed with the venom's effects, her extremities were still a dull blue in color, having been deprived of sufficient oxygenated blood for over fifteen minutes.

In less than two seconds, I had made my way to her wrists, slicing my teeth through to her radial and ulnar arteries and delivering a small, but significant dose of venom to the almost latant vessels before licking the incision and sealing it.

She cried out, trying in vain to move her arms from my grasp. "Please, no! No!"

Ignoring her cries for now, I moved quickly to do the likewise at her ankles, including both the posterior tibial artery and great saphenous vein in my efforts, praying all the while that it would be enough to save her. While my knowledge of the physiological processes of the transformation was limited, I knew, logically, that an insufficient amount of venom would, in fact, have lethal consequences. I couldn't imagine that _too much_ venom would have any adverse effects.

The entire process had taken no more than ten seconds as I utilized my inhuman speed, and I was now sitting beside her head once more as she shrieked and pleaded for me to stop.

"Kill me! Just make it stop!" she sobbed. I softly stroked the hair away from her face and held her hand; the blood and emissions from before were now dried and flaking from her skin.

"I'm sorry," I sighed. "There was nothing else I could do."

After a few hours, she seemed to give up on screaming, though her voice had not yet been exhausted. She continued to beg for death, and each time, I whispered my apologies, promising her that it wouldn't last forever—that soon, she would be practically invincible.

Rosalie continued to drift in and out of consciousness over the next two days. I quickly learned to recognize the ebb and flow of her mind and its subtle, yet clear effects on her body—her breathing and heart rate increased and muscles tensed as she came into awareness, soft whimpers and pleas issuing soon thereafter. I often attempted to explain what and who I was, and what she was becoming, but it was difficult to know how much she understood. She never responded to anything except with cries of _"No!"_ and _"Please…"_ and I frequently found myself crying with her, unable to _not_ empathize with her agony.

The venom had indeed been sufficient to induce the transformation, and the physical changes began with an alarming rapidity within the first few hours alone. The hemorrhaging had stopped altogether, her various injuries having already healed completely by the time midnight broke on the second day. Her bone structure was already changing, and I could tell that the young woman, who had already been unquestionably beautiful, was going to be nothing short of exquisite. Hair was already re-growing in large, flaxen patches atop her head. I couldn't help but speculate that if I'd ever had a daughter, she may very well have had hair much like Rosalie's, though hers was a much lighter blond than my own. The thought made me smile, despite myself, and even as she woke shortly thereafter, gasping through her pain, I found myself feeling stronger and more determined than ever before to help her.

_My would-be daughter._

She was stronger than Edward or Esme had been during their transformations, and I felt unabashed pride at her resiliency. She had been through nothing short of hell at the hands of those men, and I couldn't stop the remorse I felt at making her anguish worse. But she deserved a chance to start anew and come into an existence of which she had never before been able to even dream.

_Yes, but will she accept it, as Esme did? Or, like Edward, will she come to see her new life as nothing short of damned?_

Hours passed on Sunday, and night fell as we approached the beginning of third day of her change. I had only left her side once throughout the weekend, to make my excuse at work and ensure that I would not be needed for another week. As I watched the dying, crepuscular rays of sunset linger over the western horizon, I sat beside her with a hand protectively encircling one of hers, while my other gently cradled her head.

And that was when I heard them first. They were about a mile and a half northwest of the house, apparently in the middle of a race home. I could distinguish their footfalls easily, and it appeared that Edward was letting my wife win. Everyone knew of his matchless speed, even for a vampire, and it warmed my heart to think that he was humoring Esme.

"What, you're suddenly going easy on me down the backstretch?" came Esme's teasing voice. So he _hadn't_ been letting her win?

"No," replied Edward in a low growl. "I just—I can't believe it."

Their paces both slowed momentarily before Edward's increased, Esme's pursuing not a fraction of a second later. Her voice was frantic. "Edward? What's wrong?"

I knew immediately what was wrong. He had finally come within his range of _hearing_, and had seen Rosalie through my eyes.

"_What_," he snarled back, "you can't _smell_ it?" A few moments of silence proceeded as they drew ever-nearer, and I measured their steps in seconds to their arrival. A gasp flew from Esme's lips as she recognized the human blood.

_Twenty, nineteen, eighteen…_they were closer still. Rosalie was beginning to stir, her breathing becoming staccato as the pain drew her from the depths of her mind.

Meanwhile, the speed of my wife and son increased, my estimation shifting likewise. _Ten, nine, eight…_

Edward sprinted far ahead of Esme, leaping over a hundred yards onto the porch and nearly ripping the door off its hinges in his haste to enter. Before an eighth of a second had passed, he was in the doorway to our room, seemingly frozen, and Esme's footsteps were echoing across the yard as she ran to catch up.

My back was to him as I sat in a chair beside the bed, but I could hear the low growl rumbling in Edward's chest and the quickened, unnecessary breaths he took in his anger. Esme's light footfalls on the steps were the next sound to grace my ears before Edward stalked forward to stand beside, and face me.

I raised my hand, requesting his continued silence and leaned forward, hearing Rosalie's conscious vitals. "Rosalie, my wife Esme and Edward…" I hesitated at how to introduce him, as those in the town knew him to be Esme's brother. I decided to stick with the truth. "…my son. You might remember me telling you about them."

"Please," Rosalie gasped. "Please—_somebody_…just kill me!"

"What were you thinking, Carlisle?" Edward spat loudly, anger and vehemence coating every syllable. I knew he would be upset at my decision to bring another into this world, but there was nothing for it. What was done, was done. "_Rosalie Hale?_" he pressed. Esme had since entered the room but stood solidly by the door, holding her breath against the undoubtedly stagnant smell of blood that permeated throughout the room and house.

"Keep your voice down, Edward," I hissed lowly. I wasn't sure what she could hear at this point in her transformation. From my own experience, the last day was the worst as I came to grips with my newfound senses, each footstep in the house above me having sounded as though it was inside my own head. If she could hear us with renewed ability, nothing we could say would go amiss; but if, perchance, she was as yet unable to, I hoped to spare her whatever insults Edward would, undoubtedly, have in store.

Quickly, I verbally explained to Esme what had occurred in the minutes and hours following my shift at the hospital, while Edward watched as I narrated my memories—the drunken prowlers and their identities, the conversation they'd had and the injuries Rosalie had sustained.

"I couldn't just let her die," I continued, staring at Rosalie's unnaturally still form. Her brow was furrowed in pain—or was it concentration? Inwardly, Edward was witnessing the torrent of reasons behind my decision, and though I was careful to bury Esme's input deeply behind the shroud of my conscious thought, I could tell by his glaring look in her direction that _she_ was not hiding anything. She moved behind me, wrapping her soft arms around my shoulders and pulling me back to her chest.

I closed my eyes, quietly filling Esme in on my reasoning, whispering the details of what would have been her horrific death, and even mentioning the eleven others I had already lost that day. "It was too much—too horrible," I choked roughly, feeling a sob tightening my throat. "Too much…_waste._"

"Of course you couldn't." Esme's voice betrayed her uncertainty in the situation even as she sought to endorse my actions, and I felt her shudder behind me, a noiseless sob the cause of the movement as she pressed her lips firmly against the crown of my head.

Edward, on the other hand, seemed to have no sympathy in the situation at all. "People die all the time," he countered coldly.

_That's enough, Edward_, I silently admonished. _You've seen what I have, and you know that _Rosalie _is not some commonplace _person_. The timing was too fortuitous to be mere chance, and there's no possible explanation for it, other than that it was meant to be. _

I opened my eyes and turned to him, seeing that his expression had softened substantially with my words. He placed a hand on my shoulder, actually appearing slightly contrite; though it was clear he disagreed with my statement, I could tell he was trying to understand—I had already agonized over this enough for the three of us…soon to be the four of us. But beyond that was a measure of fear in his features, and it was entirely understandable. The entire situation had taken him by surprise, and the unanswerable question of what was going to happen next was unsettling even for me—and I had gone through this twice, already.

His forehead tightened as he looked over at Rosalie, "Don't you think she's just a little recognizable, though? The Kings will have to put up a huge search—" I stopped him, briefly, with a wordless memory of the rapists—namely, Rosalie's ex-fiancée: Royce King the Second, himself. He continued instantly with a snarl, "—not that anyone suspects the _fiend_."

A string of almost inaudible, yet quite discernible profanities issued forth from his lips at the remark, and I could see the red-eyed Edward who had returned to us coming to the surface again. His fists were clenched and his limbs shook with the force of his anger, and Esme released one arm from around me to firmly grasp his shoulder. I could feel my own concern mirrored in the way she held herself.

The next few hours passed in a similar fashion. Esme insisted on cleaning Rosalie up, washing and brushing the caked gore from her hair and body, and placing her into some clean clothes. I hesitated to allow anything that would cause the young woman further discomfort, but Esme assured me, "To a woman, it would be far more discomfiting to awake not only to a new, unfamiliar life, but also covered head to toe in…filth."

I allowed her to have her way as I swiftly washed myself and discarded my own ruined clothing before spending an hour in discussion with Edward, in his own room. As I had predicted, he was unhappy with the idea of my bringing yet another person into our "accursed existence." Though, once he understood that my decision was not as rash as he had previously assumed, and that I had brought her here in hopes of having their—and particularly _his—_input, he was infinitely less hostile toward me.

Eventually, the span of a few hours found all us sitting together with Rosalie. Even Edward seemed surprised by the unparalleled beauty that lay before us, and Esme was practically beaming as she sat beside her, whispering her comfort and stroking her hair. Rosalie was at least three inches taller than Esme, and the clothes she was now wearing were a reflection of the height differential. But regardless of dress, her sleek, slender form lay almost delicately on the bed, and long, flowing locks of bright blonde flowed down over her shoulders. Her fingers twitched lightly against the sheets—clean now, thanks to Esme—and a pair of the fullest, reddest lips I had ever seen, even in a vampire, appeared to be forming soundless vowels.

It wouldn't be long, as it was nearing nine o'clock. I inwardly berated myself for not having thought to check the initial time of her transformation, though there was little to be done about it now. Presently, she was fully coherent, of that I was almost certain; her vitals were elevated, her heart and lungs working hard in their final moments.

It was deceptive, the calm that hung over the room. I had seen horrific awakenings of newborns, with their unpredictable feats of unfamiliar strength and ferocity. Yet, neither Edward nor Esme seemed to have yet met the "standard" expectations of newborn behavior. I wondered if it was something about my own venom—perhaps its method of production, devoid of human blood, was the cause of their control?

My thoughts continued to churn down a similar train of thought until Edward's voice broke through. "What are we going to do with her?"

I wasn't certain of how to best answer him. I had addressed this question myself, to a degree, in the moments before his arrival. Her situation was not like Esme or Edward's had been—whereas they'd had nothing left in this world, Rosalie would be giving up _everything_.

Edward nodded in agreement, while Esme gave me a pleading look. I could tell she had already grown attached to Rosalie, as I had. We were beginning to see her as a part of our family before we even knew her.

"That's up to her, of course," I sighed, unable to give my wife the answer I so longed to—_that Rosalie would stay_. "She may want to go her own way."

I saw the deep sadness creep into Esme's countenance at my words, and I walked over to her, the pain of such unfulfilled longing in her gaze clutching my heart like a vice. Lifting her sorrowful face to mine, I kissed her forehead, cheeks, and lips, praying that Rosalie's choice would not be the latter, but that Esme and I would, eventually, be able to call her _daughter._

The tell-tale signs of the end began, and Rosalie let out a cry as her heart beat its last. Her eyes opened immediately, the red orbs quickly darting about the room before taking in Esme, me, and finally Edward.

She sat up quickly, breathing quickly and taking in the new, vast scents and sensations that were no doubt overwhelming her. Her expression went from terrified to confused, to curious as she looked about her, stopping often to give Esme and Edward speculating looks before her eyes landed on me.

All at once, she became furious.

"_WHY?"_ she snarled as she simultaneously leapt from the bed, an arm landing on my collarbone and pushing me backwards across the room. Edward was in front of her in an instant, pushing Esme behind him and crouching defensively with a hiss.


	15. Imbroglio

_I own neither _Twilight_ nor Carlisle; though I'm sort of glad, because if I did, I probably wouldn't have time to merely sit around and write this story. I would also be Mormon, and wouldn't drink my necessary, daily caffeine—all in all, I think it is a good thing I don't own anything, for the sake of my sanity, and that of those around me._

_Unending amounts of Beta Cred to the astute, most excellent bananapancakes07. She inspires me to get my ass in gear better than a naked Christian Bale with a chainsaw, and is infinitely less distracting…well, at least, she's not in _that_ way. Go check out her story, _The Woods Are Lovely, Dark, and Deep_, if you're in need of some wonderful plot, UST, and enthralling Bella-Edward angst—she's effing _bril!

_Sorry for the delay in getting this chapter to you all. My Summer is winding down, now, so I should be able to have Chapter 16 out to you with much greater alacrity on my part. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this next installment!_

_Another small disclaimer: this chapter has a description (less-detailed and much more concise than last chapters' material) of injuries sustained at the hands of a vengeful woman. No blood or gore this time...exactly._

* * *

_All at once, she became furious. _

"WHY?" _she snarled as she simultaneously leapt from the bed, an arm landing on my collarbone and pushing me backwards across the room. __Edward was in front of her in an instant, pushing Esme behind him and crouching defensively with a hiss.  
_

I was able to keep from falling at the sudden motion, bracing myself gently against the wall to ensure I would not fly _through_ it. My defensive instincts shot through me like a jolt of electricity, yet as I kept my gaze locked on Rosalie in appeal, she remained standing beside the bed, appearing almost stunned. Obviously, it had not been her intention to move me; it was more likely that she had intended to grab me by the collar of my shirt rather than backhand me.

Edward relaxed slightly when he realized that she had yet to incite any more violence. However, his previously offensive stance had already triggered instincts within her, and she snarled at him with deadly ire, a murderous glint in her darkening, scarlet eyes.

Walking quickly behind him, I placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, gently reasoning with him in my mind. When he still refused to move, I placed myself in front of my obstinate son in order to face our family's newest prospective member. "You'll find that all I said is true, Rosalie," I spoke calmly, hoping to console her. Edward gave me no warning, so I assumed it was still safe to be near her. "You move much faster than you are used to, but you will find it gets easier the more you become acquainted with your new self."

Rosalie stood perfectly still, her facial features seemingly changing as quickly as her mood. Esme approached her cautiously, standing beside me as she also quietly explained—in her own unique, gentle way—what it meant to be a vampire; and, more specifically, to be _our kind_ of vampire. Though I'm sure it came as no surprise to Rosalie, she still appeared incredulous.

And then, without any forewarning or prior indication, Rosalie instantly crumpled to the floor, her arms coming up and over her head protectively as she curled into a haphazard ball. Edward made a sound like a strangled gasp behind me as she began to weep, the loud cries seeming to come from the very depths of her being as she wailed and sobbed.

"Why?" she moaned between heaving breaths. Esme was sitting beside her in an instant, wrapping her arms around Rosalie's huddled form and resting her cheek atop the young woman's head as she rocked them both lightly. I couldn't stop the guilt that flooded through me, the feeling that my actions had been somewhat thoughtless. Perhaps it would have been better if I had allowed her to die.

But had her ambiguous query been formed of despair at her new life; of grief, from her last human memory; or of a combination of them? I turned to look at Edward for interpretation of Rosalie's thoughts, and was taken aback at the fierce expression on his face. Every lineament was etched with sheer pain; undoubtedly, he was experiencing Rosalie's broken memories firsthand.

His troubled eyes met mine for only a second before he whispered, "I can't bear it_,_" and rushed from the room, the back door closing a moment later.

I suddenly realized that this was now my burden to bear, as well--it was _all_ of ours. But I, in particular, was the one who brought Rosalie to my family, and would be the one to shoulder the heaviest of her pain. She was going to have to live with this for the rest of her existence, however long she wished it to be, and I would ensure that she would _never_ have to carry it alone.

Kneeling beside the two women, I placed one hand on Rosalie's back in what I hoped was a calming, supportive gesture, and my other came to rest on Esme's shoulder, across from me.

_I would be the one to hold our family together, no matter what it took._

* * *

"I…" Rosalie seemed at a loss for words as she gazed at herself in the full-length mirror beside our closet. Her pouting lips curled upward at the corners in a pleased, but bashful smile as she surveyed her new form with approval. Unable to take her eyes off the ingenuous reflection, she reached a hand out to touch the glass where her ruby eyes stared back in earnest.

After several more incomprehensible fluctuations of affect following Rosalie's complete emotional breakdown, Esme had suggested that perhaps things would be easier for her to grasp once she saw the change that had come over her. After coaxing her from the floor, Esme and I brought her to full realization of her new life; and after a tense few moments of silence, in which every emotion imaginable crossed her countenance, she seemed to settle on a delighted resignation. What I wouldn't have given to possess Edward's gift at that moment.

He still hadn't returned from his flight, though it was almost three hours later, and I began to question the absence of guilt from my conscience. Even after Esme's introduction, my soul had been uneasy with the pain of Edward's distress—but I could not find it within me to question my choice this time, despite Edward's disagreement. This had been the right thing to do, and there was naught to do from here but move forward.

"I'm _exquisite_!" Rosalie announced. Her smile widened briefly before a murky darkness fell over the expression, her mood apparently undulating to the contrary once more. "If only…" she murmured to the consummate young woman in the looking glass. She seemed to forget, momentarily, that Esme and I stood beside her, both of us completely attuned to her every breath.

My wife put a gentle hand on her shoulder in reminder, and she jumped a few inches in surprise. Needless to say, we, too, were briefly startled by the quick motion, having been on edge with her unpredictable reactions for the past few hours.

"I think we ought to get you fed, Rosalie," I suggested. Esme's worried nod of agreement caused Rosalie to eye us suspiciously.

"What?" she asked no one in particular. "Are you expecting me to be some sort of enormous failure at this?" Esme and I started in our defense at the same moment, but Rosalie gave us no time for remark. "As hellish as I may perceive this life to be so far, that doesn't mean I'm going to just give up. And besides, my throat is burning more than it did after I had a tonsillectomy when I was twelve."

"Of course we don't see it that way, Rosalie," Esme said with a soft tone, her hand stroking comfortingly across Rosalie's shoulders. The touch seemed only to heighten Rosalie's irritation, for she glared daggers at me and Esme halted the motion immediately, obviously afraid the look was indirectly aimed at her. "We're only concerned because we know how hard it is, at first. And for you, especially…"

Rosalie growled, crossing her arms in front of her and turning to Esme. "Let's not dance around with semantics like I'm some feeble child. For me, especially—_because I was raped._ Is that what you're getting at?"

Esme started to reply, a helpless defensiveness worrying her brows together, but Rosalie refused to let her get a word in. "You think I'm going to be some bloodthirsty, vengeful creature whose only concern in life is hunting down the men who viciously attacked me and draining them dry, is that it?" Esme stood in a somber silence, both of us unable to respond to the tirade being verbally thrown at us.

"Well, maybe that _is_a great ambition of mine at present, but I also happen to be worried about figuring out who the hell I am, now that everything has been ripped from me. And maybe I am hating what Carlisle did to me—" I flinched at the raw honesty in each syllable. "But I'm also hurt by the fact that one of the members of your so-called _family _finds me so repulsive that he can't even stay in the same _house_!"

She was in hysterics again, her face falling into hands to catch the tears that wouldn't come. My chest throbbing with empathy, I wrapped an arm around her shoulder in consolation, but she flinched away from me, curling into Esme's embrace instead. Hurt as I was by it, I knew much of her irrationality was caused by the unbearable hunger she must be feeling. I nodded out the window while looking at Esme in a silent urging to draw Rosalie to the hunt. She smiled lightly, though her face was still wracked with grief at Rosalie's pain.

"Rosalie," she pleaded. "I know everything is hard and confusing right now, but trust me, so much of it becomes clearer once you've hunted. I remember it all too well, myself—it's like sleeping on your troubles, and waking to find them far less worrisome than they had been the night before."

I beamed in pride at my wife's ability to know precisely what those she loved needed to hear. Predictably, it had the desired effect on Rosalie, and she desolately followed Esme and me out the door.

She was a remarkably gifted huntress, intelligent and agile, and completely competent in her newfound abilities without needing much guidance from either of us. She was so methodically controlled in her skill that Esme and I were even able to indulge in a few prey without worrying about her running off. She remained close, though it was unnecessary with Esme and I both on alert for any nearby humans.

Throughout our hunt, strangely enough, my senses caught the slightest hint of Edward's presence nearby. His scent was far too fresh to be an old trail, and I found myself calling to him in my thoughts. If he heard, he never joined us, cryptically staying just outside the range of my hearing at all times. After a few hours, he left us altogether, and I was left to focus entirely on my wife and Rosalie.

It was nearly dawn when we returned, Rosalie's mood much improved and more stable than it had been before. That is, until Rosalie abruptly turned to us on our way home, her eyes tightened into glittering slits in her irritation.

"Why does Edward hate me?"

I was taken aback by the blatant query, but Esme seemed unsurprised. "He doesn't hate you dear. He's also having trouble adjusting to it all."

Rosalie shook her head. "But he _does_—I _heard_him. He said he couldn't bear _it_, which I can only assume was meant about me, so obviously I did something to offend him." She glanced at me, amending her statement when she saw the curious look on my face. "Not that I really care or anything…I just want to know what's the matter with him if we're going to be living in such close proximity."

With just a look, I could tell the frantic question in Esme's eyes—_do we tell her of Edward's gift, or use it to our advantage?_ Rosalie had been incredibly unpredictable thus far, and was proving to be even more intelligent. Since the fixed idea of revenge was still present in her mind, perhaps it was better to be cautious and allow her to remain ignorant.

I answered, lifting the burden from Esme's shoulders. "Edward has always had trouble dealing with what he perceives to be reckless choices, particularly when it affects him. If anything, his anger is directed at me, not you."

"But that's not the whole answer, is it?" she countered, taking a few steps toward me and looking up into my eyes. She couldn't have been more than five inches shorter than I, and I found the small difference to be somewhat leveling. I hadn't known her very long, but already felt I could speak with her on a more equal basis. She had an air about her that demanded respect—perhaps stemming from her final, humiliating moments as a mortal—and I couldn't help the words that I divulged as I held her pleading gaze.

With a sigh, I afforded her the truth. "Many of our kind hold certain…special abilities. I believe yours might be unmatched beauty." She smiled smugly, and I was suddenly unsure if it was because of my compliment, or if she knew she had won. "Edward can hear the thoughts of others, and upon your awakening, he was upset by whatever he saw in yours."

She was still for a moment, a nimiety of emotions passing through her countenance; the various muscles in her face twitched in reaction, but seemed indecisive and unable to settle. With a resigned nod, she thanked me before turning to fall into step with us as we walked in the direction of home. Beside me, Esme's footsteps moved in unison with mine, her hand entwining with my own as she reached up to kiss my cheek. She could tell I was unsettled about having divulged so much information, and seemed to be entirely content about the whole thing. I knew her attitude would be contagious eventually, but for now I remained ill at ease.

And my stomach tightened further in nervous concern when we arrived home to find Edward sitting on the porch, waiting. As we approached, he stood, ignoring Esme and Rosalie and focusing entirely on me.

"I need to talk with you." He glowered fiercely at Rosalie for a moment, turning his gaze back to me instantly. "_Alone_."

I looked to Esme in silent inquiry, and she took Rosalie's arm, pulling her up the front steps. "We'll be waiting inside. Don't worry about a thing."

Following Edward away from the house, we ran for miles, my anxiety growing, just as our distance from home increased. As much as I understood Edward's dire need for privacy—undoubtedly, he was in need of expressing his anger in a way that wouldn't upset Esme or Rosalie—it was unwise for both of us to be so far from home, unable to be contacted in case we were needed.

As though hearing the logic in my thoughts, Edward halted. To my surprise, he turned and let loose a primal yell, punching through the nearest tree. "What were you thinking, telling her about my ability, Carlisle?" he huffed. "She has you and Esme wrapped around her finger and you're completely oblivious."

I sighed, thinking back to my inexplicable need to tell Rosalie. "She deserved the truth, Edward, after all she's been through—"

"_After all she's been through_," he mocked me. "Don't try and appeal to my sympathy with that drivel. At least you got to her body _after the fact_ and never have to truly _know_ what she went through." He had a point. Though from a medical standpoint it wasn't difficult to imagine how her injuries had occurred, he was right—I hadn't seen it from her perspective, as he had. But before I could apologize, he continued.

"Regardless, she's not the wounded, pathetic creature you seem to imagine her to be. She's more of a provoked wasp at the moment—no, an entire _swarm_ of wasps. And she's hell-bent on revenge, no matter _what_ cards she's showing."

"Edward, be reasonable," I said, attempting to calm him. "There's nothing we can do except try to convince her otherwise." I thought quickly, deciding it would be best to amend that statement. "And perhaps move as soon as it is wise. The greater physical distance there is between Rosalie and the means of her ruin, the better." We couldn't be out of the area without suspicion for another few months, however. A city-wide manhunt had begun for Rosalie mere hours after her disappearance, and to pick up and leave town now would draw unnecessary amounts of attention. Of course, Esme and Edward could possibly leave with her while I remained a while longer…

Edward sniffed in disdain. "Not likely. Esme can take her wherever she so desires, but I'm not going anywhere with _that_." I felt my anger begin to simmer at his objectifying reference of Rosalie, her question of why he hated her beginning to copy in my own thoughts.

"It's all a game to her now, you know. Her main objective is to destroy those who hurt her," he stated, "and she's using you and Esme as pawns while she basks in your cosseting. She was already beginning to piece together how I was able to know so much, realizing that I answered unspoken questions during the last few hours of her change. And with that knowledge, she manipulated you and Esme in order to get the answer, going so far as to think it a major victory. It's disgusting to watch."

I nodded in affirmation, more to acknowledge that I had heard him than actual concurrence. His insights, while gathered from his own, secret delving into her mind, were also very biased. At the moment, Rosalie was angry and capable of great vengeance, but I couldn't help but believe that she was intelligent enough to see reason. It would take a great deal of patience and vigilance, but I was optimistic that she would eventually calm down.

"Think what you want," he said ominously. "But she's never going to change."

I allowed myself a few moments to process all that had been said, taking Edward's words into serious consideration. But I allowed Esme's hope in all things to spread through me despite the portentous sense that told me otherwise. I pushed the feeling aside, thinking that maybe Edward was so upset because he was so entirely unsure of the outcome. Perhaps if he knew where we would go from here, it might give him some peace in the situation.

I had become aware of Rosalie's approach mere seconds before, and she suddenly appeared, Esme charging after her with an apologetic frown on her face. My love came to stand beside me, slipping an arm around my waist and snuggling penitently into my side with a murmured explanation.

"I just thought that since you were discussing me," Rosalie noted smugly, "that I should be present. Wouldn't you all agree?"

Edward threw his hands in the air in aggravation, turning brusquely away from us and kicking at the forest floor.

Rosalie smiled curtly at his reaction, but continued in the same, sickeningly sweet tone. "I believe you were talking about how I'm 'never going to change?'"

"Actually, Rosalie, Edward and I were just about to discuss what our plan should be from here." She waiting silently, raising her brows once in an impatient indication that I should continue. I smothered a rising ounce of indignation at the disrespectful gesture, opting to hold Esme closer against me in distraction.

"I think it best if you and Esme went away, Rosalie, while Edward and I stay here to avoid suspicion."

Esme let out a slight whimper at my side, undoubtedly feeling the agonizing pang in her chest at the thought of our separation, for any measure of time.

"No!" Rosalie yelled, her stance relaxing as she caught herself, the word echoing around the lightening forest. "I mean, you shouldn't have to be split up because of me. I would feel absolutely dreadful." She looked between Esme and me with an unveiled, tragic longing in her gaze, and I truly felt sorrow for the opportunities she had lost as a human.

Sighing in relief at her offer, I began struggling to come up with an equally safe alternative. Rosalie couldn't very well stay with only Esme—it was clear that Edward wanted nothing to do with her. However, as part of our family, reluctant or not…

"Then, I suggest we wait a few months until things quiet in town," I looked between the three of them, inclusively. "I'll take fewer shifts at the hospital so I can be home more often, and that way, Edward won't be pressured with so much responsibility."

"I didn't ask for _any_ of this, so I fail to understand why I should be _responsible_ for any of it," he growled over his shoulder, now leaning against the tree that held an Edward arm-sized hole in it.

"Oh, an _it_, am I?" Rosalie wailed in offense. "Perhaps you would like to see how much damage an _it_ can do!" However, her threat was offered without physical backing, though Esme and I tensed instantly, ready to jump between them if necessary.

"She's part of our family now, Edward," I stated boldly, making it clear that I was giving the final word on the matter. "And whether or not you agree to it, it is now our job to protect her, even if it is only from herself." He neither spoke nor moved in concession or dissent, but the unpleasant silence that echoed in the forest behind my words was answer enough.

Another thought appeared with the last, and I was quick to share it.

"And beyond that, I think we all know well of the repercussions that would come swiftly should Rosalie lose control and expose us." Edward turned to face me at that, his expression heavier with sobriety, and eyes contrite.

"What then?" Rosalie asked. It took me a moment to realize that she was responding to my plan of action.

"Once we know it's safe," I replied, "we'll move elsewhere—somewhere far more remote, until Rosalie is past the newborn stage and better able to control herself."

Everyone nodded or spoke their agreement, and after a bit more discussion, we all headed back home as a group, Edward lagging behind, still disheartened despite the promising future that seemed to spread out before us.

* * *

Thirteen days passed in much the same manner. Edward and Rosalie continued to find any excuse to fight with each other in my absence, running poor Esme's mind and nerves to exhaustion with their almost constant bickering. Either from weariness or out of respect, they seemed content to avoid each other in my presence and afford our home a few hours of peace. Though my shifts at the hospital were now fewer, maybe three a week, they still seemed to amount to too many, and Esme was practically begging for me to relinquish even one more day. Every return to home began with Esme flinging herself into my arms in relief, molding her lips to mine in hysteric desperation and allowing me to sense the built-up vexation from her time alone with the two.

Regardless, Edward was faithful in keeping a constant watch on Rosalie's inner progress for me, giving me insight on how best I might be able to help her—whether by drawing closer or keeping my distance from her. It varied day to day, but she seemed inclined to desire bonding with me more often than not. Edward had commented on her deeply-rooted wish for her father's attention as a human, but she seemed more interested in my insights into and philosophy surrounding our family's mores than in sharing any of her own thoughts with me.

As Esme had predicted, our new group had fallen into a peaceful routine within the time of a fortnight, and all seemed to be going well.

That is, until daylight broke on the second week following Rosalie's awakening. I was sitting in my office at the hospital at ten that morning, as usual, when Dr. French, head of the morgue, interrupted with a nervous knock. I greeted him informally, as disrespectful as I thought it was, knowing that the more formal address I was used to were now out of fashion.

"What can I do for you, Adam?" I smiled warmly at him, careful to hide my teeth from view—the man already seemed on edge, and there was no need to intimidate him any further by being careless.

Even so, he remained halfway out the door, clearly on an important errand. "I heard you have had experience in postmortem medicine, and I have something…strange that I need a second opinion on."

I agreed wholeheartedly, following him at a quick pace as he all but ran to the morgue. Leading me to a corner of the room, four corpses lay in a row on separate gurneys, a sheet covering each entirely but for the feet and their tags. The immediate, unmistakable smell of death surrounded me as we approached, but it was not this odor that caused my chest to clench in anguish, nor my stomach to sink forebodingly—

The scent of one of my kind hung thickly about these bodies. Its perfume was unique, dangerously alluring and almost unbearably sweet. The slightest hint of my own scent screamed back at me in accusation, holding me culpable for the loss of these men's lives, though the fragrance was not mine—

_Rosalie._

"These four came in within minutes of each other," Adam began, his eyes darting to and fro with an almost panicked determination as he shifted through his paperwork. "All before eight this morning, and from different areas of town. The families all ordered autopsies to determine cause because there were no witnesses. Now, I've taken my time examining them, but something just isn't right—their injuries are so different, and yet seem to have strange similarities…"

I approached the first victim, my hands nearly shaking as I gripped the sheet. "May I examine them myself, Adam?" I said, never taking my eyes off the outline of the yet-hidden body before me.

"Yes, yes, of course. Go right ahead," he conceded. "Very strange, very strange…" he continued murmuring to himself as I exposed the first man's lifeless form, guilt and anger replacing any warranted trepidation I had felt. It was one of the men that had attacked Rosalie, without a doubt.

As Dr. French rattled off his notes, I wondered at the injuries—or lack thereof—of the cadavers. There were no external lacerations to be found, apart from the postmortem incisions from the coroner—she had apparently refrained from biting or drinking from any of them, somehow. The various causes of death _were_ bizarre, but if he had known the culprit, they were each entirely fitting to the men's crimes.

The first man's hands—from the carpal bones to the phalanges of each—had been shattered completely, the bones crushed to dust within the skin. The amount of sedulous care it would take for someone, much less a newborn vampire, to pulverize the skeleton without breaking the skin was almost incomprehensible. Not to mention the torturous agony the man must have been put through to sustain such an assault before his neck was broken. The second man's cervical spine had also been severed, his teeth ground down to the root as with a heavy file—though it had undoubtedly been no more than Rosalie's own hand as the instrument.

The third and fourth died from heart failure, it seemed, but not before the third's pelvic girdle and middle and index fingers were shattered. The fourth suffered multiple blunt-force concussions, and a piece of splintered, broken-off broom handle was found inserted into his rectum, oiled with car grease.

By the end of it all, I felt truly sickened, and Dr. French looked no better than I. He ran a hand through his balding hair, combing it absently with his fingers. "I'm thinking these are all linked somehow, but they were all seen late last night, and then found this morning. If it was a serial killer, there is no way on earth they could have gotten to all four in just one night." He chuckled darkly. "Unless Santa went crazy early this year."

I was unable to share in his jest, and I stared at him through my anger, causing him to become instantly serious, his casual humor directly replaced by a regretful, nervous jitter. I forced myself to calm down—the poor man was obviously struggling to piece together and process such aberrant crimes, and his off-color joke had been nothing more than a coping mechanism. Even now, he stood at the table, agitatedly flipping through his notes, his face twisted in frustration.

"Why don't you go home, Adam?" I suggested offhandedly, though inwardly, my mind was already writing the slightly falsified findings and reports. "You look like you're in desperate need of some rest. I'll finish up here."

He looked at me, incredulous. "I—I couldn't possibly…I mean, I _have_ been here since nine last night, but it's only a few hours past the usual end of my shift. And besides," he murmured with a shake of his head, his eyes dropping to flit over the stack of papers in his hand. "The police are still waiting for my findings, and I still have to fill out and file the reports.…"

Obviously the man was in need of a little more convincing. Walking over to him, I placed a hand on his notes, lowering them to the tabletop as I placed my other on his shoulder and looked him squarely in the eye. "You've done all you can. I'll gladly fill out the reports for you. I don't have many appointments today, so it shouldn't be a problem for me to step in. Go home to your family."

Dr. French nodded, a bit dazed, but was able to give me a few further instructions before groggily wandering out the door.

As soon as the latch clicked into place, I was working with full, inhuman speed, filing all four coroner and police reports in less than ten minutes. It was all too easy to make the deaths seem unrelated, medically; but circumstantially, the police would not be so obtuse as to miss the connection the men had—to Royce King, in particular. I had done all that I could _here_. At home, however, there was much to be done.

As many years as I held, there were few occasions in which eight hours seemed at all lengthy; however, the remainder of that shift was impossibly extended. Time moved sluggishly, as though it knew of my impatience to return home. However, by the time seven o'clock arrived, heralding the setting of the sun and my safe departure, I was much calmer than I had been. The passing hours had given me time to think soberly about the situation, and I realized that impatiently rushing home would only fuel my anger at Rosalie's heinous crimes.

I forced myself to stay somewhat composed as I drove home, the inadequate speed of the car slowly provoking my frustrations. I grit my teeth, gripping the steering wheel as tightly as I dared, knowing that I would, likely, be unable to control myself upon arriving.

Esme did not greet me outside, as usual. It was clear all three were in the house as I walked up the steps, but there was a dreadful silence that surrounded the property—_the calm before the storm._

I walked into the house with purpose, not even pausing to take off my coat before moving to the stairs. I could smell Rosalie's scent leading to her room upstairs, and immediately charged forward before being stopped by a light tug on the bottom of my coat.

I knew it was Esme before I turned, mid-way between the third and fourth steps. She was standing dejectedly on the landing, and retracted with a gasp when she took in my expression.

"So, you know," she whispered.

"The bodies came into the hospital, and I was called on to examine them." I nodded curtly before turning to continue my advance.

"Please," she puled.

I turned to her again at the sound, and upon espying the pained look on her face, I found myself leaping to her side and pulling her into my arms. "I'm sorry," she rasped, her soft voice pleading. "Please don't be angry with her—it was all my fault. I'm not sure how she got away. She was home with us, and—"

"For the last time, Esme," Edward's orotund voice came from behind me as he left my study, "you are _not_ responsible for Rosalie's bad decisions, as stupid as they may have been."

"He's right," I concurred. "The fault lies entirely with me—I should have been here."

I could almost hear Edward roll his eyes. "I suppose _you_ went out and gave the lowlifes their just rewards, then? Really, you're as absurd as Esme. Were you really so surprised after all my forewarning?"

I turned to him with Esme still clinging tightly to me, allowing him to see the fury in my gaze as I recalled the memories from that morning. He stiffened slightly, but appeared insouciant. "Well, it's certainly intriguing to see it from another perspective."

I ignored his careless remark, giving Esme one final, heartening kiss on the forehead before moving to the staircase once more. However, Esme blocked me again before I had traveled more than an inch, unbuttoning and taking off my coat as she spoke quietly.

"Please go easy on her, Carlisle. I can only imagine how much she must have gone through in order to refrain from drinking from those men; she must be mentally exhausted from holding onto so much control." Edward scoffed to my right, and I found myself looking to him briefly in scorn before Esme continued. "And Edward already harangued her as soon as she set foot in the house. I doubt there's much you can say that he didn't. He said more than absolutely necessary, anyway," she added with a glare in his direction before climbing the stairs ahead of me.

_And how did she take it?_ I silently asked him, my eyes catching his as he cocked an eyebrow at me.

"How do you think?" he replied sardonically. I could feel my anger swell again as I thought of her heedlessness and a smirk widened on Edward's lips as my thoughts began to swirl. He turned, walking back into my study as I steeled myself.

I could still hear Edward's amused chuckles floating from my study as I climbed the stairs, his muttering of "_Good luck_" the last sound to reach me from downstairs. Esme waited outside the room for me, her silent appeal to my compassion in the matter plain on her features. She kissed me gently when I reached her, succeeding in quelling the wrathful fury within me momentarily, before it flared again at the thought of the task before me.

Rosalie sat in the middle of her partly-finished room, slumped comfortably in a chair that had been intentionally moved to its current location. She was perfectly parallel to the door, her left hand absently stroking through her hair, which flowed over her shoulder like a flaxen scarf.

It was clear that she was expecting me, her eyes meeting mine unblinkingly as Esme and I entered the room. There was an unabashed flippancy in her gaze that sent a shock of incredulity through me, and though I was able to stifle a wrathful hiss, I could feel my muscles coiling instinctually in preparation for action that I would not allow. It didn't escape Rosalie's notice, however, and surprise lit her eyes as she read my posture. She straightened a bit in her chair, the slightest hint of nervousness present beneath her doughty exterior.

Her hands never stopped combing calmly through the golden strands. "I suppose you're expecting an apology," she said, nearly smiling.

"No," I growled, "I would never _expect_ you to lie to me." Rosalie's jaw slackened as my anger began to boil to the surface, her hands coming down to grip the chair tightly, loosening as a sharp _crack_ filled the charged silence following my words. I thought I heard Edward's laughter from below us, but decided I'd imagined it—_surely, he wouldn't find humor in such a serious situation?_

As Rosalie's mood instantly shifted, Esme placed a placating hand on my arm as the young woman began to backpedal quickly, her still-black eyes widening in a pleading, mock-innocence. Obviously, her hunt the previous evening had been negated by her proximity to the men. "I made sure none of them bled—"

"That is not the main concern on my mind at the moment." I stifled whatever justification she was planning immediately, and charged ahead, "You have been strong from the moment you awoke, Rosalie, but that is no cause for celebration in the wake of your actions."

A half-smirk formed itself on her face as she sniffed, her gaze shifting to casually inspect her clothing. "I already got an earful from Edward, so you can skip the whole speech about my putting your _precious_family at risk for exposure. I made sure I left no evidence and that there were no witnesses." She glanced up at me from under her lashes, a stunning gesture, but it only served to fuel my anger at her impertinence. She enunciated each word with careful smugness—"It's all just one, big mystery. Maybe even an act of God."

I snapped. "This goes beyond putting the family in jeopardy, Rosalie—the family of which you are now a part, should you choose to be." Her expression softened, but the complacency remained deep in her countenance. "You have used your abilities to exercise your own revenge on beings that have no means of defending themselves. That is cruel and cowardly, and it is not how we live our lives."

"Cruel and cowardly…like they were toward me," Rosalie cried, her face twisted in agony as she avoided my piercing stare. "Where was _my_ means of defense when all five of them held me to the ground and strangled me?" She rose from her chair quickly and moved to Esme, who stood beside me, placing her hands carefully on Esme's shoulders.

"Tell him," she sobbed. "Tell him that you never _once_ thought about getting even with your human husband for all the times he beat and raped you."

Esme's expression fell as she looked between Rosalie and me, before her sorrowful gaze came to rest on the floor beneath us. "Of course I did," she whispered. Then her eyes rose to meet Rosalie's, bright with the dawn of a new thought. "But you see, dear—I always had Carlisle. It seemed somewhat fruitless to look back at the pain when I had so much before me to hope for."

Rosalie snarled, whipping away from Esme and pacing back to her chair, her jaw locked as she bitterly ground out her words. "_Yes_—you got _everything_ you _ever_ wanted. How _swell_!"

"Enough, Rosalie," I chided. I could see what she was doing—drawing pity from Esme in an effort to play us against each other. Edward had been right; this _was_ all a game to her, and I was already tired of it. "It's clear nothing I say will sway your conscience in the matter—"

"Oh really, Carlisle," Rosalie breathed quickly, "it's not as though anyone will _miss_ the _bastards_." Her words ended in a seething hiss as her vindictiveness took over, her eyes glazing with the memory of her spree.

"Rosalie, dear—" Esme gently warned, but I shook my head at her, taking a breath to steady myself. It was clear that being angry with the young woman was only serving to escalate her propensity for emotional vacillation, and in order to regain control of the conversation, I would need to be calm and assertive.

"So you are feeling more at peace with yourself, then?" I prompted, knowing at once the answer she would struggle to push aside.

As if on cue, she seemed to deflate in her chair, her eyes tracing the cracks between the floorboards as she searched herself inwardly. Taking a deep breath, her eyes rose to meet mine as she spoke, now entirely calm. "I was fine…until I saw your reaction. Now I'm really not sure what to think."

This time I was _certain_ of having heard Edward's light chuckle. Esme's eyes flitted to mine, her expression mirroring my own bewilderment at the sound. It was no more confusing than the present situation, and I was able to consider it with little regard and Rosalie's words steeped in my mind. Once again, she was succeeding in completely baffling even my most calculated efforts.

"What do you mean, dear?" Esme pressed, moving to stand beside her. Rosalie allowed her head to rest against Esme's stomach, and my wife's arms came up to cradle it, and caress her hair.

"I felt completely justified in my actions, regardless of Edward's annoying tirade downstairs. But then Carlisle walked in here…and I've never seen him—or anyone, really—so angry toward me…" Rosalie trailed off and was still for a few moments, even her eyes fixed and unfocused on an undefined point beyond my right leg.

She took a large breath in, releasing most of it in a sigh, and her gaze remained steady. It was slightly unsettling to see her so serene after her hurricane of emotion just moments before.

"I'm not used to this, you know," she stated plainly, as though it were common knowledge. "Having people who actually care what I do."

I thought about the few tidbits of information I possessed of the Hales, of all the parties and socials held in their rise to fame. It seemed that everything had been done with Rosalie at the center—did she never see how invested her family had truly been in her life?

"Not that I ever killed anyone in cold blood as a human," she continued, "but I doubt even _that_ would have provoked my parents to any display of emotion as far as I was concerned. I was their prized china doll, to be kept on their mantle and shown off to the world. In their eyes, I could really do no wrong—unless it made _them_ look bad.

"But you don't care about that, do you?" She looked up at me, a crease forming between her thin eyebrows as she narrowed her eyes in uncertainty. I tilted my head in an unspoken request for clarification, and she spoke quickly, "Edward was angry that I put your—" she smiled sheepishly before correcting herself, "_our_ family in danger; and that, I can understand. But you were so angry with me, Carlisle, even though I did nothing that would connect any of you to the crimes…it's just all so confusing."

I walked over to them, realizing that I hadn't moved since coming into the room—undoubtedly a subconscious precaution against acting in anger—and placed a reassuring hand on Rosalie's shoulder. Wide, dark eyes looked up at me, and I realized that I had actually frightened her. "Perhaps it was the wrong way to react, and I apologize for scaring you."

She smiled lightly, her features relaxing and glowing as the tension in the room ebbed. However, I wasn't sure how to answer her question, if that's what it was I was starting to become familiar with her phrasing of questions in the form of statements, but still at a loss for an adequate reply. Luckily, Esme seemed to sense my apprehension—or she simply knew what Rosalie needed to hear—and spoke gently.

"And you must understand, dear: Carlisle is a doctor, at his very heart." My wife gave me a gentle smile, and it warmed me thoroughly that she knew me so well. "To see _any_ person's life—no matter how vile or wayward—taken, particularly at the hands of another, is hard for him. And it must have been quite the shock for him to know the offender so personally."

Rosalie looked up at me, true remorse darkening her features. "I'm sorry it hurt you—that was the last thing I wanted," she pleaded, lifting a hand to her mouth in horror. "You must have thought I did it to get back at you—because I hate this life…hated _you_for changing me." Her angst was rising steadily, along with her pitch, her voice tight with emotion. "I don't hate you, and that's not why I did it—"

"I know, Rosalie. It's all right," I spoke low and soothingly, tightening my hand on her shoulder. A part of my mind found it interesting how Esme and I were once again forming a circle around Rosalie, offering her support and love in a situation which would normally call for immediate retribution. No matter how much we would mirror an ordinary family relationship, our dynamic would most likely always be anything but _normal_, particularly if Rosalie continued with us.

"I understand why you _needed_ to do it," I explained, "but I also need _you_ to understand that we cannot tolerate this."

Her reply was barely more than a whisper. "I do."

I allowed my words to sink in for a few more silent seconds, hoping beyond hope that she would not continue her revenge to Royce. However, a doleful foreboding clung to my mind surrounding the thought, and I had a feeling the eventual apogee of her spree was ineluctable.

My thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the doorframe. Edward stood with his fist in his mouth, his eyes sparking with laughter as he spoke to Rosalie.

"Go ahead and ask him," he chortled, crossing his arms in front of him and leaning casually on the doorframe, clearly amused with himself.

Rosalie scowled at him, but looked up at me with the aplomb of a reporter. "I was just curious to know how old you are, that's all."

Wondering if this was somehow some new scheme of hers, I looked over to Edward in question. He remained ineffably pleased with himself, for some reason unbeknownst to me, but managed to nod, indicating that it was just a question.

"Physically I'm only twenty-three, as that was my age when I was changed. However, I was born sometime in the 1640's, which would make me around two-hundred and ninety years old, give or take a few years."

Rosalie's eyes widened in shock, understandably, and she looked at Esme incredulously before her gaze fell to the floor, her hands resuming their worship of her fair locks. "But that's…I mean, you look so _young_." Edward's amusement became increasingly audible throughout this brief exchange, much to Rosalie's annoyance.

"Are you going to tell him," Edward snidely remarked, "or shall I?"

Rosalie growled. "Don't you dare!"

Edward turned abruptly, walking down the stairs as he casually remarked. "Far be it from me to reveal that you've been secretly _lusting_ after Carlisle."

Esme let out an instinctive, possessive hiss before she could stop it, instantly clamping a hand over her mouth in horror, while simultaneously, Rosalie stood, splintering the chair she had been sitting on and racing down the stairs after Edward.

My wife and I stood slightly stunned for a moment, staring at each other in complete confusion.

Suddenly, and completely inappropriately, I began to laugh at it all. It took Esme a few moments to join in before the humor found in the situation was interrupted by the sound of fighting and a large crash from downstairs.

Racing downstairs immediately, we found a hissing and cursing Rosalie pinned, momentarily, on the living room floor by an incredibly disheveled and smug Edward.

Separating them carefully, Esme with Rosalie and I with Edward, we struggled to make sense of what had happened. Apart from an overturned side-table and a demolished couch, the room appeared to be unscathed.

"Edward, what happened?" Esme scolded, helping Rosalie's smooth her hair and crumpled clothes.

"It was self defense," Edward shrugged. "The shrew pitched me into the couch and attacked. I wasn't about to—"

"And I suppose underhandedly _humiliating_ me in front of everyone is entirely defensible! Maybe you would like them to know that you knew of my plans all along and did _nothing_ to stop me," Rosalie countered.

"Everyone, calm down," I ordered with every ounce of my tutelary power. As I whipped my gaze sternly between the two, Rosalie remained glaring acerbically at the source of her foul disposition, her murderous thoughts indubitably as clear on her face as they were in his mind; Edward appeared to still be pointedly contemptuous as he held her black look unflinchingly, a brief moment of guilty chagrin passing over him when I finally coaxed his gaze to mine. However, I couldn't say I was surprised at the knowledge of Edward's essential accomplice in the matter. It was no secret that he still held no sympathy for criminals, particularly after his own experience in vigilante justice.

Esme and I exchanged a weary look. It was enough for them to bicker like children, but to begin destroying our home as well…

An idea came to me, almost like divine revelation, and it pleased me immensely that I had finally found something to serve as a suitable punishment for their continued hostility toward each other.

"Since you two seem to know each other so well," I addressed them, motioning for Esme to come stand beside me as I delivered their sentence. "We would love nothing more than to see you become better acquainted—which is why Edward will now be in charge of Rosalie's provisional house arrest and hunting privileges until we are able to leave town."

"_What?_" they yelled in tandem.

* * *

Though Edward was less than agreeable to me in the week that followed, he accepted his penalty-turned-duty without much complaint. Rosalie was more tolerant of my decree, for she understood my need to get my point across in a very concrete way. They fought less in our company, remaining politely civil, but I could only assume what fire and brimstone must be released when they hunted without us.

We all remained vigilant, knowing that Rosalie would not be avenged until Royce had also met his fate. Edward could detect the subtle weaving of her final plans, but she was learning quickly to mask her thoughts from him, and he could only catch small glimpses. All we could do was attempt to keep her within arms-reach at all times, never affording her ample opportunity to escape us.

This afforded Esme and I no time to ourselves, however, and it was beginning to wear on us. Reading the dire longing for each other in each of our minds, Edward had agreed to take Rosalie hunting alone today, a selfless gesture for which I was unfathomably grateful. His expression brightened slightly at my praise, though he quickly hid it, coldly beckoning Rosalie and explaining his "assignment." Though he did not mention the reason, I got the distinct impression that Rosalie caught it, and she followed him, quickly and without question, down the hall.

I heard the front door close only a moment later, the terse silence between Rosalie and Edward fading with their footsteps into the distance. Esme moved through the hallway, but headed upstairs and away from my office, rather than into it as I had anticipated.

With a resigned sigh, I shifted my attention back to the book in front of me, and another twenty minutes ticked by before I closed it, unable to keep my mind from feeling the distance in our home between myself and Esme. She had settled in our room; I could hear the pages of whatever book in which she was engaged turning every minute or so. I was growing anxious with each passing second without her near, especially now that Edward and Rosalie were miles away, and the familiar, restless pang of frustration began to settle in my chest. But I forced it away, thinking that perhaps she needed some time alone.

But hope swelled in my entire being as I heard her set the book on a shelf, the bottom edge of its pages sliding roughly against the wooden surface as it slid into place, as I so longed to within her. Step by agonizing step, she descended the stairs, finally gliding into my office, after what seemed like an eternity, and sitting comfortably in my lap.

Wrapping my arms around her, I stretched up to kiss her, but to my discontent, she pulled away. "No, I think you should take me into the sitting room, first." I opened my mouth to question her demand, but Esme placed a finger on my lips, her dilating, honey eyes looking deeply into mine. "Please?"

It was then I realized the paronomasia within her phrasing—she was asking me to _take her_. I couldn't help the boyish grin that spread across my face as I stood quickly, simultaneously lifting her into my arms, mischievously growling and playfully nipping at her neck. "Oh, you want to _be taken_ into the sitting room, do you?"

My Love protested in jest, gaily "struggling" against my jaunty antics as I walked us, unhurriedly, into the requested room. Upon our arrival, she requested that I release her, which I did, though with much reluctance, and she laughed at the lugubrious look that I gave her the moment her body was no longer touching mine. Walking over to the electric record player, she pulled out a Victor I wasn't familiar with.

"I just bought it yesterday," she clarified, as though reading my mind, "though it's about three years old—it's Duke Ellington." As the gentle jazz tune began, she walked quickly to me, placing my right hand on her waist and placing her other hand within my left. I smiled as she grinned up at me.

"May I have this dance?" I lightheartedly offered.

We held each other close as we danced around the room to the melancholy melody, stealing the occasional kiss between steps before Esme's head would once more come to rest low on my shoulder. Even as the music came to an end, the stylus wavering without guide above the record's label, we continued our gentle embrace, savoring the intimacy of the peaceful moment. My wife's body moved effortlessly in time with mine as I guided her about the room, slowing gradually from our relaxed two-step into a stationary sway.

My head nestled atop hers instinctually, my hands leaving hers in order to hold her closer to me, like the precious treasure she was. Inevitably, the repressed, frantic need we constantly held for one another began to ignite, Esme planting open-mouthed kisses along the collar of my shirt as she felt my deep and ever-growing desire for her manifest itself in my body.

The realization that Esme and I were truly and completely alone—for the first time in weeks—sank in, causing my desperate yearning for her to spike sharply. I dug my hands into her caramel locks, gently, yet desperately, bringing her mouth to mine and pouring all my adoration into her silken lips. My hands moved down her neck and shoulders, caressing and massaging as they found the small buttons on the front of her shirt, my fingers undoing them deftly.

"Don't you dare rip them off like the last time we went this long without each other," she growled against my mouth, sucking on my lower lip before biting down lightly before pulling back to smile at me coyly. "As sexy as it is, I think the women in town are beginning to wonder why I have to buy so many replacements."

I smiled and chuckled at the thought, unable to find it within me to care, presently. "We have an entire day to ourselves, Wife," I groaned as she pressed and rubbed seductively against me. "I would be a liar to say I haven't needed you every hour since last we held one another."

Esme laughed, running her hands down my sides and pulling my hips greedily into hers. "If you keep feeding my inner romantic with that old-fashioned language, I'm going to run off with you and tell Edward and Rosalie to fend for themselves."

The thought of Edward and Rosalie grounded me slightly, and I realized that had been her intention. She was reminding me that though our "children" were of immense importance at the moment, _we_ would always be the priority to each other. No matter how the tense dynamics within our family ironed out—of which she was infinitely confident that they would—I would always have her devotion, and she would never be without mine.

A deep growl, almost a purr, charged its way through my chest—a sound which I knew was nothing short of an aphrodisiac to my lover—and she was on me in an instant. Her skirt hitched up around her hips as her legs encircled my waist, her arms wrapping securely around my neck as she whimpered and pleaded her need into my mouth.

I started moving simultaneously, intending to carry her to our room, when she suddenly launched herself from me, fisting my shirt in her hands to halt my progress. I was baffled, until I saw her heavy-lidded gaze, darkened by a lust-driven thirst in want of being quenched. It was during moments like these that our physical expressions of our love became the most intense, and my own throbbing desires were heightened in anticipation.

"Not upstairs," she grinned, pulling me with her by the belt loops of my pants as she shuffled backwards. "Right here, right now—our new couch needs to be christened."

Just then, the backs of her knees hit the cushion, and she fell gracefully to sit upon the sofa, pulling me down to kneel between her legs as she kissed me fiercely. Before a human eye could blink, Esme had unbuttoned my trousers and pulled her skirt up and out of the way, both of us frantic for our long-delayed lovemaking. We both breathed a sigh of relief as she pulled me to her, my head falling back in utter rapture as she whispered my name with deep affection.

"Edward, wait!"

Esme and I froze. We looked at each other, and I was certain that the incredulous look on her face could not have been any different than my own. We listened intently, hearing Edward's growl, Rosalie's pleas, and the pairs of footsteps, almost trilling in their speed as they neared the house.

Without another glance, we stood quickly, fixing our clothing and smoothing each other's hair. From the scents in the room, it would be impossible for our…_activities_ to go unnoticed, but if we could even minutely ease the inevitable awkwardness that would come, I knew it would help immensely. Clearly, whatever had possessed them to return so early from their hunt in such a turbulent manner was going to require the utmost solemnity.

We were barely able to compose ourselves before the front door burst open, a rumpled and dirty, shirtless Edward rampaging through with a slightly less-grimy Rosalie hot on his heels.

"That's it! I've had it," he roared as he stomped up the stairs.


	16. Determination

_I own neither _Twilight_, nor Carlisle. Damn it._

_Thank you to everyone who has reviewed my chapters so far, and I apologize for the embarrassingly long replies that you recieve. I really love to hear your thoughts on what I've written, and love to explicate even further than what you probably want to know. Regardless, it is the continued support of my wonderful readers (CareBehrsGem, EliseShaw, nosleep3 (whose New Moon AU story, _Fate Worse Than Death_, is kickass!), and MsWolverine, to name a small few!) that gets me through each chapter. My love to all!_

_And this wouldn't be a complete Author's Note without mentioning my dearest friend, and fabulous beta, bananapancakes7. There are no words--I am literally speechless. If it hadn't been for her this week, I wouldn't have been able to write this. Really and truly. Go read her story and give it rave reviews--it's the least you can do, if you are enjoying my work._

_Sorry this is a short one, but it's necessary to resolve some elements from previous chapters while setting up for the future, and not making for an awkward flow in the last few chapters. We're coming down the backstretch of "In My Power," so hold on for the ride!_

_

* * *

_

"Edward, what's happened?" Esme's words came at the same moment. He whipped around to face us, retreating a few steps and leaning over the banister. At a glance, one might think he was a young man who had just been in a scuffle—his hair was mussed even more than usual, remnants of leaves and damp earth clinging to various strands throughout the mass, giving him a rather wild, intimidating aura; though, undoubtedly, the peculiar rage with which he currently loomed over the hall made him inarguably imposing, caveman-like appearance or no. Mud-caked remnants of the forest floor covered his upper body and arms in haphazard streaks and smudges, dried in most places from the furious wind caused by his travel. His jeans seemed to be the only article of clothing still intact, stained as they were. Even his shoes were missing.

Rosalie stood by the door looking irritably guilty with her averted gaze, arms wrapped tightly around her middle—a self-comforting gesture, I gathered. She seemed to have suffered little damage, as her curled hair still remained immaculately in place despite a wind-tossed airiness. Only her hands and knees seemed to have suffered much filthiness.

"What does it _look_ like?" Edward yelled. "She _attacked_ me!"

"Oh please, Edward," Rosalie scoffed. "It was an accident and you know it. Stop being such a girl about it." He snarled at her, his muscles coiling in preparation for a strike, before Esme leapt between them, her hands holding Rosalie securely behind her.

"Yes, what a horrific _accident_—against the one person you detest in this house," he spat at the young woman. His body trembled in anger as I sought to bring some semblance of reason to my understanding of what had happened between them.

Edward's gaze shifted to me, one hand gesturing to the space between Rosalie and him. "What's not to understand, Carlisle? She very consciously assaulted me, covering it up with the guise of wanting my prey for her own. You know it is not so beneath her." An angry hiss came from Rosalie and she stepped forward, but Esme held her back, moving with her to keep them apart.

"That doesn't make sense, Edward," I questioned. "How were you unable to detect her so-called _plan_ before it was carried out?" He was silent for a moment, considering.

He sighed in frustration, the sound so close to a growl that it nearly vibrated off the walls. He ran a hand through his hair, shaking it lightly and loosening some of the vagabond particles. "She didn't think about it until after she was already on top of me. She's learning quickly to mask her thoughts, especially where I'm concerned."

"I didn't mask _anything_, you boor!" she remarked. "It's not my fault you chose the same, carnivorous animal that I did, nor is it my fault that I could only see you as the competition."

He opened his mouth to retort, but Esme cut him off. "Everyone, just stop for a minute," she said, holding her hands up in command of the debate. "So let's just assume, for the moment, that Rosalie is correct." Edward hissed his disagreement, but otherwise remained silent. "She merely wanted to get to the animal—"

"The bobcat," Rosalie inserted, a coy smile on her full lips. "They smell so much better than deer."

Esme nodded in understanding, standing so she could put an arm around Rosalie's waist. "She wanted to get to the bobcat, and in her frenzy, she saw Edward as a rival. That's not too hard to explain." She then gave Rosalie a quick, suspicious glance before turning an appraising eye to Edward. "Now, your missing shirt, on the other hand—that is _not_ quite as easy to explain."

Edward's face was half-covered by one hand as he pinched the bridge of his nose; the other occupied itself by gripping his hair tightly. He looked nearly ready to pull the mucky strands out by their roots, and his voice was tight as he fought to calm himself. "I told you already, she didn't just push me out of the way—she wanted to _kill_ me. If I hadn't been able to avoid her by reading her moves ahead of time, she may very well have succeeded in ripping me to ribbons."

"I already apologized a million times, though I didn't need to." Rosalie seemed content with the whole situation as she spoke, clearly resolute in her defense. "And you weren't hurt in the end, Edward, so just cool out."

"_Cool out?_" he snapped, clearly having lost the battle with his temper. "Just play the sycophant to Carlisle and Esme, and everything's just fine for you?"

Esme's attempted to soothe his raging exasperation. "She didn't mean to kill you, Edward, she was lost in the hunt. It could have happened to anyone." She punctuated her statement by looking me straight in the eye, petitioning my leadership.

"Edward, she does have a point." I moved to the banister at Esme's pleading glance, standing just a few feet below my son. "Other than being remarkably frustrated with the lapse in your ability where instinct is involved, and in need of some washing up, you are entirely unscathed."

An unmistakably hurt expression shot through his eyes like a bolt of lightning, and the resounding anger that replaced it was like the roar of thunder.

"Well then, why don't _you_ take her hunting? She's your damned_daughter_, after all," he grated, his eyes hardening infinitesimally. "Then she can attack _you_ and everything will be just _peachy._"

Edward was out the door almost before his final word had finished echoing off the walls of the hallway. I sighed, wondering at his propensity in running from all things he disliked rather than facing them head-on. I certainly hoped that hadn't been my failure—that I hadn't somehow instilled such an irrational behavior in him at some point.

Rosalie instantly disappeared upstairs to change her own ruined clothing and bathe, evidenced by the engagement of the faucet in the tub. Esme appeared to be recovering from Edward's abrasive speech as she wandered over to me, reaching for me and entering the sanctuary of my arms. I was at a bit of a loss in the situation, as well; having apparently failed both Rosalie and Edward, it was comforting that Esme, at least, still held me in some positive regard.

She inhaled deeply, her face pressed firmly into my chest. I was reminded of our moments together before this fiasco, and found myself longing for the fulfillment they had so prematurely promised. I could feel the need she still held for me radiating off her like a furnace, but knew there would be no hope of release until the current situation was resolved.

"Go after him, Carlisle," she whispered. "He's hurt and in need of someone to stop his running from himself. Only you can do that for him right now."

I placed a kiss atop her head, simultaneously inhaling through the heap of curls amassed in an intricate styling there. There was, indeed, more going on in this situation than Edward was letting on, and neither Rosalie nor Esme would suffice as a catalyst for his relief. Though it would take a little prodding, I knew that his bond with me was strong enough to draw it out, as poison from a wound. Whatever it was he needed, I would do everything I could to provide for him.

Esme sensed my silent agreement and drew back slightly, reaching up on her toes to plant a passionate encouragement on my lips, her hands combing through my hair and smoothing the worried creases on my face.

She rested her forehead gently on mine. "Whether or not he'll admit it aloud, he's your _son_. And he needs his _father_ right now. Try to remember that when you speak with him."

Though her words seemed somewhat arbitrary and gratuitous, they planted themselves firmly in my mind, just as everything else that ever flowed from her heart to mine.

I left the peaceful shelter of my wife's embrace and presence, my mind and body united instantly to follow the scent that my entire being could only label as _Edward_. Everything I knew of him—learned from experience or fellowship—was linked indelibly with the smell, and I could have sworn my long-dormant heart began beating again as the molecules in the aroma filled my chest and drove me onward.

It wasn't long before I found him in the woods, much in the state he was upon his return from the hunt. He was sitting cross-legged on the ground at the edge of a steep drop-off, his back to me as he faced the rising dawn. Even without seeing his face, I could tell how broken he was from the way his shoulders slumped, his spine curving forward, muscles stretching beneath the caked and cracking mud on his skin. He was very still, one arm lying lax in his lap while the other's elbow braced on his leg, his head resting wearily in its hand.

_He needs his _father _right now. _Esme's words came back to me quite suddenly, and my heart sank at the thought—

_I had been diagnosing him_.

A humorless chuckle came from Edward, his entire body and leaves that lay as blanket around him vibrating from the accompanying movement. "It's just as Esme told Rosalie—it's in your nature. Don't be so hard on yourself."

Sinking down beside him, I leaned my back against a tree as I sat perpendicular to him, not even a foot away, looking out at the sunrise as it painted the sky with a palette of celestial color and highlighted the sea of treetops that continued to the horizon. I kept my thoughts as quiet as I could, only allowing my concern at his outburst to surface. He didn't answer my worry as he normally would, his eyes remaining closed and jaw locked defiantly.

"I'm just sick of it all, Carlisle," he ground out after several minutes. "It was _your_decision that led to this whole debacle, and I refuse to be her keeper any longer."

I sighed. "Edward, I know that she's incredibly unpredictable, even for a mind-reader such as yourself; but I understand that to be normal for newborns, despite my experience with you and Esme."

"_Unpredictable?_" he scoffed. "She's downright _insane_, Carlisle. I've never known anyone to think of so many things at once—not even Esme, as annoyingly feminine as she can be. It's like having my mind suffocated with how much information it is inundated. But beyond that, her thoughts are always changing with her moods, which no mind could ever detect or follow; and she's _always_ considering Royce with _some_ part of her mind, however illogical or untranslatable it might be."

I wasn't surprised by any of this new knowledge, but it was the things he was omitting that were of greater interest to me—namely, the reason he identified me, in particular, as the cause of his torment. Indeed, it had been my decree that he keep an eye on Rosalie; however, it was his own involvement in—or rather, willing _allowance_ _of_—Rosalie's judgment on her attackers that had led to my verdict.

Edward sucked in a breath through his teeth, grinding them together once and bringing a hand around to rub absently at his forehead, some dirt and leaves falling from his hair as he shifted. "That's not what I meant, Carlisle. It just…came out that way."

"I think I'm old enough to know when something was misspoken, and when it was meant, however unchecked it may have been delivered." His eyes opened in small slits for a fraction of a second as he looked at me from the corner of his eye, but closed immediately when he realized that I would not drop the subject without a fight. And considering the immense struggle he had already endured today, it was clear he was in no mood to argue.

He went very still, hand frozen in place with fingertips still pressed to the center of his brow. "It just makes me sick to see the hold Rosalie has over you and Esme. It's disgusting to see the both of you fawn over her like she's the only one in the world who hates what she is, and in making her life easy, you will somehow convince her otherwise."

"You of all people should be able to understand what she's been through, Edward," I spoke calmly, hoping to keep our conversation peaceful. It seemed to be having the opposite effect on him, however. "But I hardly think that we've been _lenient_ in our actions with her after—"

Edward snarled. "If you would get your head out of your ass for even a moment, Carlisle, you would realize that you can't be responsible for someone's happiness in this life, particularly when, like Rosalie, they've consciously chosen _not_ to be."

My defenses reared at his tone. It was patronizing and belligerent, and I opened my mouth to remind him of his place—only to snap it closed again instantly as I was, once again, reminded by a sharp twinge in the middle of my chest that this wasn't what Edward was looking for. I had no idea how a human father would react to a son speaking to him in such a manner, but I could only do what I felt was best for him, societal norms aside.

I quietly pondered his words for several minutes, matching them up—objectively as possible—to the events of the past few weeks to ascertain if there was any truth in them. My heart sank as I began to see that there was, indeed, a good measure of clemency in our dealings with Rosalie.

But the more I searched, the more my mind began to see a different pattern altogether. Throughout the past few weeks, I had cut my shifts at work to be at home, spent a larger-than-usual amount of time hunting, and focused my mental faculties more than ever on creating a loving, supportive family—

All for _Rosalie_.

Furthermore, it became more and more apparent that everything Edward had done for Rosalie in the past weeks had, rather, been for _me,_ at my request. All my free time had been spent, necessarily, with Rosalie, and Esme, who also rarely left her side. Of course in my mind, Edward and Rosalie's outright dislike for each other was my main reasoning for keeping him as uninvolved as possible; but it was only now that I was beginning to realize how excluded Edward must have felt. Throughout the madness of the last week, Edward had dutifully agreed to watch over Rosalie, much to his detriment, and had asked nothing from me in return—or had he?

I inwardly felt Edward flinch before me as I sympathized, the motion undoubtedly more of an emotional expression than anything physical, as my conscious senses found nothing changed from the moment before. Even with my bond with my son as strong as it had been, I had somehow failed to notice how much he needed me, now more than ever that Rosalie had joined our group.

"You may have a point," he allowed, only the slightest hint of tightness in his voice and at the corners of his closed eyes betraying his true feelings on the matter. "Though I'm almost ashamed to say it's more of a _want_ than a _need_."

"Why didn't you say anything, Edward?" I fought the desire to move to him, knowing that it made him feel too much like a child to be physically comforted in his troubles. He was, after all, nearing thirty-two years of age. In lieu of life experience, he was most definitely not a stranger to the world, despite the adolescent tendencies that often floated beneath the surface, but I still knew him as the lost seventeen-year-old who was in desperate need of support.

His golden eyes were on me instantly, his head following their path immediately until his far shoulder was forced to draw nearer, as well. "That's precisely why. I didn't want to seem like some selfish, querulous brat who throws a fit because _Mother_ and _Father_ have a new favorite child and he feels forgotten. I know that isn't the case, and I was attempting to be mature about it…for once."

I nodded, keeping my own response from tumbling out before his words had a chance to be truly processed. It only took less than a second, but to our kind, that could be an eternity, and Edward's expression was pleading for my answer.

"I appreciate your thoughtfulness, Edward—it does demonstrate a great amount of maturity for you to put others' needs before your own." I was relieved to see him relax at my encouragement, knowing my affirmation was something of which he was in desperate want. "But I've come to learn, thanks in great part to Esme, that to deny your need for love, on any level, is more detrimental to your own well-being than you can possibly realize."

He looked away from me during my latter words, his eyes scanning the horizon with an almost uncomfortable unsteadiness. I remained silent, giving him time to gather his own thoughts in relative peace, away from the haunting chaos of our currently turbulent home.

It wasn't until the sun had finally peaked over the horizon that he spoke again, his voice hushed, ashamed. "I _have_ missed you, and _this_—it just being the two of us again."

A warm, steady rush of relief spread through me at his account, the familiar glow of joy at finally knowing what Edward needed, and how I might help, lightening the load that weighed heavy on my soul.

"I have missed you as well, Edward, though perhaps my mind was too completely, and in all other ways occupied for me to consciously think it."

"It's not entirely your fault, you know," he said, a corner of his mouth turning up in a crooked smile as his eyes became alight with a familiar, teasing glint. "I've decided I absolutely hate the mind of a woman—even in humans, it has a dangerous penchant for draining the mental puissance of men faster than Rosalie feeding from a small animal," he laughed.

And for the first time in recent memory, we were able to share in his amusement together.

I moved to kneel beside my son, placing an arm around his shoulders as he allowed his weight to fall into me slightly. The slight hesitance displayed by the subtle stiffening of his frame was an all-too-obvious reminder of how wounded he was by my distance of late, and our brief joy was overshadowed in my heart by the thought.

Every fiber of my being was weighted with apology. "I'm sorry I haven't been there for you when you needed me. It was wrong, no matter the excuse."

He shrugged in an attempt at displaying indifference, but the movement was impeded, both by the presence of my arm across his back and an air of duplicity in the gesture.

"From now on, we'll work things differently," I offered. "I'll ensure there is time for just the two of us if you can manage to work out some sort of truce with Rosalie." He groaned in reaction. "And I'll see if Esme won't agree to be Rosalie's hunting companion more often when I am not available. So long as you keep us abreast of any new developments that may arise where Royce is concerned, I don't foresee it being a problem."

"I've heard much in her mind that involves the loathsome excuse for a man, but none of it stems from any sort of scheming," he commented. "She's hoping he will have heard of his friends' deaths, though. Has he?"

I chuckled; I had, indeed, overheard the latest gossip about the Kings, courtesy of the hospital's apparently _overworked_ nursing staff. "He has, from what I've gathered, and is absolutely petrified, doing everything shy of hiring Federal agents to protect him."

Edward chuckled darkly as my mind replayed the various stories I had been privy to—from fantastical, obviously falsified, reports of mansion-sized underground bunkers, to the intervention of the newly-elected President Roosevelt himself. More likely were the accounts that fell somewhere in the middle, such as his hiring armed guards and locking himself in one of his family's many homes.

Of course, all of these tricks and endeavors would be for naught if Rosalie was still bent on his demise, and the time Rosalie was giving him to contemplate it was providing for one of the cruelest ends of them all.

Edward seemed to glean something from this notion. "That's an idea—perhaps we could convince her that it would be far worse for Royce to live out the remainder of his pitiful existence waiting for the axe to fall."

"It's worth mentioning, at the very least," I agreed. "However, if she truly is as fixated on him as you say, there is likely nothing we can do or say to dissuade her. Likely, the best we can do is get her as far away from Rochester as possible." He nodded his accord as my mind circled around the statement, thinking back to the few exchanges I'd had with Rosalie over the past weeks and days. No matter what the circumstance—even in her hunting mishap with Edward—she was never the one to blame; in her eyes, she was the hapless victim of unfortunate circumstances.

"I wasn't lying when I told you she attacked me on purpose," he sighed. "She thinks she's doing an excellent job of hiding her true motivations behind the guise of _uncontrollable_ instinct or thought, but some of her more vicious intentions tend to leak through."

_I'm sorry I didn't believe you, Edward._ I silently made amends. _It's easier to believe the best about Rosalie than to allow myself to believe she will remain so louche._

He seemed to consider my thought for a moment, looking off into the woods, away from me. "That is where we have always differed—I cannot seem to see the good in this soulless existence, no matter how much you try to change me. I guess I'm just damned to remain forever as I am," he muttered with a cold resignation.

Images of what I had been like, before _and_ _after_ Esme had become a part of me, flickered through my mind, and Edward sniffed in disregard. I knew beyond a doubt that Edward would only remain as he was until he found his own match. Deep, unconditional love's transforming qualities were impossible to resist, particularly—

Edward held up a hand, his eyes tightening as an annoyed frown marred his features. "Could we possibly manage to have this conversation _without_graphic illustrations of just how _deeply_ your relationship with Esme goes?"

I quickly focused my thoughts, not realizing how easily my mind had wandered in that direction; though, it was unsurprising, considering the…_libation_ in which my wife and I had been indulging before being so barbarously interrupted. Regardless of the current, inclement state of affairs that demanded my attention, Esme's and my unfulfilled yearning had not been forgotten in the least—the complex nature of our kind's sentience made it nearly impossible for any distraction to gain full purchase. I gave my son a chastising look to punctuate my unspoken defense, and he ran a hand through his hair, awkwardly avoiding my glance.

"I suppose I do owe you an apology for that," Edward murmured. "I heard both your thoughts long before I could audibly hear anything, but I couldn't bring myself to care. I was so furious with Rosalie…"

I gave him a nod in understanding, but couldn't help my curiosity at the circumstances behind her assault, beyond what Esme and I had already been told. "Do you have any idea what provoked her?"

He stiffened. "I do."

Quite suddenly, his expression was suspiciously blank, and I inwardly encouraged him to continue, though it only seemed to make him more agitated. He seemed to debate his answer within his own mind, his gaze shifting warily to meet mine every so often. Meanwhile, my own thoughts were tumbling with nervous concern—what could have possibly occurred that would make him so circumspect?

After several minutes of his silent deliberation, I decided enough was enough.

"There should be no secrets in this family, Edward," I pronounced. This wasn't a new concept to him, and he finally raised his eyes to mine, albeit hesitantly. There was unmasked guilt there, and I knew he was afraid of disappointing me, again.

He took in a slow breath, in preparation, releasing it at a comparable speed before inhaling the necessary air to speak. "You might as well know it was my own fault. Rosalie couldn't stop thinking of the reason we left, and her thoughts naturally led to self-pity and envy of yours and Esme's relationship, and then to the family she had always wanted, but can now never hope to have. For over twenty miles, all she could do was wallow in those self-absorbed ideas.

"And then she started blaming you for it all, Carlisle….and I just snapped." He paused for emphasis, shaking his head in disdain of words that remained censored. My heart sank as he accounted everything, and the descriptions cemented in my mind, the words becoming an enlightening, horrifying narrative of a Rosalie that I was not as familiar with; yet, it explained much.

Edward continued. "I made sure she understood how her _happily ever after_ might have looked if you had left her on the street—that most likely, she would have died; or if, by some miracle, she had survived, she would have ended up ruined and alone, and probably scarred for life. So sheltered was she in her human life, she didn't even know how many women can't so much as let a man _near_ them after such experiences."

I found no dishonesty in his words but could only imagine the effect they would have on an already emotionally-volatile Rosalie; I began sorting through all the possible scenarios that may have led up to what we saw at the house, upon their arrival. Edward simply shook his head at it all.

"She just hissed, '_How dare you?'_ and ran off, crying. I made sure she didn't go too far, and she seemed to just take all her anger out while she hunted, making herself feel better by pretending the prey was me. So when I caught the scent of a bobcat, I decided to let her be for a minute—and just as I was about to strike the animal, she was on top of me, clawing at my neck and chest.

"And the rest, you know," he sighed heavily.

I found myself conflicted by the tale, and uncertain of how to respond. Certainly, she was allowed a feeling of injustice in her situation—but to blame _my actions_ for her discontent? And to take her anger out on Edward? That was _absolutely _inexcusable. I would definitely need to discuss this with Esme, who seemed to have more influence over Rosalie than I. It was possible that her volatile, newborn emotions were the primary cause of her actions, so much so that they were unable to be compartmentalized and adequately dealt with; but if there was anyone who could help Rosalie, it was Esme.

I found the familiar longing returning to me at the thought of my love, increasing with the successive memory of Edward and Rosalie's approach not an hour before.

"Again, I really am sorry for intruding," he said. "Though I'm slightly glad I did: Esme was making plans for every room, and I'd rather not have had to come home to _that_knowledge. No room would be safe to breathe in but my own."

I laughed at his obvious discomfort with the idea, but found my wanton thoughts increasing with the knowledge of Esme's prior intentions.

"I fail to see how this is helping me keep my thoughts implicit while in your company," I averred as he began to stand, brushing the accumulated debris from his pants. I stood with him, pulling a stray leaf from his hair when it was revealed by the lowering of his head in inspection, nestled among the mussed, burnished strands.

"Well," he began, crossing his arms in front of him. A roguish half-smile played on his lips, and I could feel my own expression lifting in preparation for what he was about to say. "Esme is already set on dragging you off for a few hours as soon as we step foot in the house."

I cleared my thoughts instantly at his disclosure, feeling my prurience spike at the thought of what—or rather, _who—_waited at home, just minutes away. His eyes rolled as our gazes met, but I was unable to feel any shame at the excited desperation that I felt in every ounce of my being.

With a comradely clap on his shoulder, I made a mirthful, though entirely earnest offer.

"Race you home?"

He stood stunned for a moment at my jest, his mouth nearly agape as he scrutinized me. Confused by his apparent stupor, I gave him a quick moment's notice before taking off toward home, hearing his almost gliding footsteps close behind me in an instant.

"What has gotten _into _you, Carlisle?" he wondered from his steadied pace beside me, voice lilting with perplexity. "I've never seen you this…"

"Coltish?" I offered with a chuckle. Looking over to him, I was amused to find him shaking his head as he continued to gawk.

"I suppose there's really no other word for it. I haven't ever seen you act so…_young_ before. It's a bit unsettling."

I couldn't help but laugh at his bewilderment, even though I found myself a bit surprised by my own feelings. "Esme seems to increasingly bring out the dormant twenty-three-year-old who never had the opportunity to really _live_, so to speak, and has given him a new chance to experience life."

"And by _life_," he crooned sardonically with a roll of his eyes, "I assume you mean _lovemaking_." I couldn't help the Edward-like smirk that found its way to my lips at his sarcastic insinuation, and I allowed some of the more chaste recollections of my matrimonial expressions of passion to the forefront of my thoughts, in retaliation.

"All right, truce," Edward exclaimed with a noise of disgust. We continued in silence for another fifty yards, my anticipation returning with full force, when suddenly, Edward stopped me with a hand on my shoulder. He placed a finger to his lips and shot me a warning glance, and my mood suddenly sobered as I listened intently, reaching out with my senses to detect any approaching danger.

Being not a mile from our home, I was instantly defensive, willing to risk even my own life to protect my family; however, the only sounds to reach my ears were the faint sounds of Rosalie's voice as she spoke with Esme.

"Wait—where are you going?" Rosalie's voice conveyed a sense of desperation.

"Carlisle and I are…going out for a bit," Esme replied matter-of-factly, her shoes clacking against the hardwood of our second floor as she stepped on the first stair. Her voice became quieter suddenly, as though she were merely speaking to herself, "I could have sworn I heard them coming back…"

"But I don't want to be left alone," Rosalie insisted, her footfalls following a similar path.

"I'm sure Edward will be here, dear, if you should need anything." Esme descended three more stairs.

There was a brief pause, and I looked to Edward, who suddenly appeared very smug, though he remained motionless and silent.

"Like I said," Rosalie continued, her tone infinitely harder, "I don't want to be left here alone."

A heavy sigh came from Esme and she halted her descent. I could practically see her in my mind's eye, turning and gazing up at a sorrowful Rosalie. Her tone remained patient and soft in her reply, though I knew she was probably at her wit's end.

"Carlisle and I cannot always be your mediators, Rosalie. Maybe you and Edward could use this time to work through whatever it is that has you at each others' throats."

"He hates me!" Rosalie wailed. Edward sobered at her declaration, though the haughtiness had not entirely disappeared from his countenance, and I raised a brow in question. He merely shook his head in reply, as if to say, _I'll tell you later._

Esme's answer came immediately. "Rosalie, he doesn't hate you."

"And he's going to turn you and Carlisle against me, I just know it!" Rosalie began sobbing, and I heard Esme turn on the step, moving, presumably, back to the distraught young woman. I knew my wife was undoubtedly embracing her, seeking to comfort in whatever way she could—a part of which, I hoped, did _not_ include giving in to her request and remaining at home.

"That's enough of that!" Esme growled. "Carlisle and I _will_ be leaving for a short while, and Edward will be here, whether you like it or not. You're an eighteen-year-old woman, for heaven's sake, not a blubbering child of five! It's about time you started acting as such, rather than crying whenever you don't get your way."

The tenacity in her response surprised me, considering the softness with which she usually handled Rosalie, and Edward barely restrained a snicker, squeezing his eyes shut and placing a hand over his mouth to contain his amusement. I shot him a glare, though I knew he did not see it visually, and decided we had heard more than enough.

Nothing further was uttered by either woman as we continued on toward home, pride at my wife's fortitude in standing up to Rosalie swelling in my chest. Esme's steps resumed on the stairs, and then down the hall, toward the back door, as Edward and I approached the rear of our home. Clearing the woods, we slowed to a relaxed walk, though to any human eye, it would likely appear as though my son and I were attempting to out-stride one another.

My beautiful Esme emerged from the house not a second later, carrying a small pack, and I found her in my arms before I had taken another step. Edward continued past us as she wound her arms around my neck and drove all thought from my mind of anything but her.

"Yes, I'll stay, Esme," Edward called over his shoulder before the back door closed firmly behind him.

I was vaguely aware of a pair of crimson eyes watching us sourly from the second floor hall window, and though a great deal of concern over Rosalie's spiteful disposition held fast to my mind, my heart staked a larger claim, and overran my harried soul with love as I allowed my wife to pull me into a blissful new day.


	17. Undone

_I own neither _Twilight_ nor Carnisle—I mean Car_lisle_. If I did...rawr! Gah...I'm such a gerbil! (You should all check out that SNL "bar sketch" if you haven't seen it.)_

_Mad-crazy cred to the beta of ineffable wisdom and splendor, bananapancakes7. Her Bella/Edward AU is totally kickass, and if you haven't read it—well, as Nike says, "Just do it!" (Free advertising completely unintentional, and I am neither affiliated with nor an employee of the Nike Corporation.) This story is brought to you today by the letter "C," the most effing hilarious letter—and personage—of them all. We are a duo, she and I._

_Thank you to all my readers, and a **huge ass hug** to those who review; and, as always, to those who have been consistently reviewing each chapter—I can't tell you how much you are loved. _

_No disclaimers this chapter—but I make no promises for the next. Let us on with the tale!_

* * *

It was past nightfall by the time Esme and I forced ourselves to surface from our rapacious worship, still feeling the unbearable need pulling us together with an amorous magnetism. Even as we dressed with the new—and whole—clothing from the small bag Esme had possessed the foresight to prepare, we found ourselves parting for only seconds before sneaking soft, adoring caresses and lingering kisses wrought with the loneliness our bodies would soon feel for each other.

Though we would rarely be apart in the days and decades to come, our brief day together had not been enough to even remotely quell the rampant desire I held for my wife—and I was beginning to suspect that no amount of time, not even eternity, would give us an adequate span in which to sufficiently express our limitless love. There would be no consummation for us—only endless new beginnings and never-ending renewal.

"If we leave now, they'll never be able to catch us," Esme whispered with a sly grin between one of these brief meetings of our lips. She brought her hands up to the sides of my head, forcefully bringing my mouth to hers, though there was no need for coercion. The idea was certainly tempting, to be sure—perhaps, with a few more days alone…

I shook my head at my negligent thought, drawing away from her only as far as was necessary for my lips to form words.

"And see who ends up as kindling first?" I mused, and then added, "I don't think that would be the most conscientious course of action, no matter how much we may need it."

"Oh, those two!" Esme groaned, allowing her head to fall forward, her forehead landing heavily on my shoulder. "They're the two halves of a vicious circle—Rosalie hates Edward because he doesn't like her, and he undoubtedly dislikes her for the way she treats him…"

I picked Esme up in my arms and set us down on the forest floor in the same motion, her soft form cradled in my lap as my arms wrapped around her small waist. She noted the gesture for what it was—an indication that we were about to have a very serious discussion—and wrapped her arms about my shoulders, her head coming to rest beside mine.

She sighed, nuzzling my neck affectionately. "Is this about the talk you had with Edward?" I allowed a small part of my mind to revel in the sweet sensation that came from her contact, but forced myself to remain focused and physically unaffected…mostly.

"Yes," I replied, simply. I conveyed to her all that had transpired between Edward and me, and Esme remained entirely still and quiet, only offering firm squeezes of encouragement during the more weighty sections—particularly those dealing with my own failures, both as a father and a friend.

"But you can't possibly blame yourself, Carlisle," Esme gently asserted, one hand falling to stroke my back. "If Edward withholds something so important, no matter the reason, then the consequences are his own fault—it was no oversight on your part."

I could see the logic in her argument, though it did nothing to soothe the raging dread at having missed something that now seemed so obvious, and I told my wife as much.

"Yes," Esme sighed, "hindsight is always so much clearer; but now that everything is out in the open, I suppose all we can do is move forward as best we can."

"Agreed." I held her tighter, placing a kiss on her forehead. She lifted her head immediately, lips seeking mine, but I evaded her advances, laughing lightly. "We still need to discuss our plans for this 'moving forward'—that is, _geographically_ moving. The manhunt for Rosalie is still in its third week, but I think it would be safe for us to leave if everyone thought it was because you don't feel safe after the recent chain of murders."

"No, I definitely _don't_ feel safe here," she joked, nipping and placing open-mouthed kisses along my neck and jaw line. Her hand began roaming freely across and down my chest and abdomen, even as her focused seemed to remain within the topic of our discourse. "But you were right in what you said: a change of scene is probably the exact thing to help Rosalie—and Edward—adjust."

She took in a quick breath, smirking against my collarbone with a new thought. "Well, that, and maybe a good kick in the pants," she added with celerity, and I chuckled lightly with her.

It was then I realized that the first few buttons of my shirt had been undone, somehow, without my notice, evidenced by Esme's nimble fingers tracing the open "v". I held back a grin at the realization, forcing myself to remain unchanged in my countenance. Esme knew the effect her subtle, teasing gesture would have on me; and, careful not to give away my intentions, I retaliated, one hand stroking around the hem of her blouse, barely grazing the skin beneath it. A sharp, unnecessary intake of breath on her part made victory bloom like a bud of lust within me, and I knew she could feel my uncontrollable reaction to her affection.

ll of this had taken less than a second, however, and I continued our conversation without missing a beat. "The first step will be deciding where to move. I can probably find work most anywhere in the country, and I have far more than enough in savings to find a suitable house for the four of us—" I took a few moments to consider all my previous travels, attempting to estimate how much the past populations had grown in the decades since my departure.

Esme continued her exploration of the small space between the collar of my shirt and my skin, and I fought to keep my concentration. "With Rosalie's unpredictability," I mused, "remoteness would be preferable—and it would also give Edward ample room to stretch his legs. I think the more space there is for them to be apart, the better." A few of her fingers slipped beneath the fabric, nails dragging lightly along the juncture of my neck and shoulder.

"And _we_ might find it easier to have time to ourselves," she nearly purred.

I could feel my muscles tighten as the seductive quality of her voice met my ears, and my breathing hitched as I sucked in the required air to reply, regardless of my attempts to appear unaffected. "I could easily acquire some census maps of various states. Did you have any particular area in mind, Esme?"

"Somewhere warm," she answered immediately, one hand dipping low to skim the waistband of my pants. Regardless of her distracting movements, I smiled at her willingness to express her wishes to me. She was unabashedly giving with her love, but also equally as disposed to tell others what she needed, and I found myself adoring her all the more for it. "And sunny," she continued— "I loved being able to lie in the sunshine for hours in Ashland without having to leave the front yard."

I could feel my brow furrow instantly, my immediate response being one of inability to comply with her request. "That will certainly make travelling to work more difficult, but I will do as much as I can to find a place that suits you, Love."

Esme's hands stilled in their pursuits, and she allowed her head to fall to my shoulder as she released a heavy sigh. "I've been thinking about what you said to Edward, you know, about wanting to be what he needs—what _everyone_ needs…" she trailed off, softly playing with a lock of my hair between her thumb and forefinger.

"Yes?" I encouraged.

She seemed to brace herself, as though she was expecting me to become angry. "Well, I just thought that maybe with the change of location and with everyone trying to get to know each other— maybe _Doctor Cullen_ would be willing to take a bit of time off from work and just be…_Carlisle_ for a while. Just until things settle down."

I felt myself freeze at the thought. Besides my studies in Europe, before I found what would become my true calling in life—and what had led me to find Edward, Esme, and now Rosalie in the first place—I had only ever taken a sabbatical in order to re-enroll in school, to stay current with the latest discoveries and techniques in medicine. However, all that was before I had found what could be considered an even greater passion—a _family_ that deserved my utmost love and attention. And if what they needed was _me_, then I would give up whatever was keeping me from them.

Esme sensed my hesitation, however, and she snapped her head up, quickly amending her statement. "I don't mean _completely_, Carlisle—that would be like asking you to stop existing altogether, and we all understand that. Your work is as much a part of yourself as Edward and I, and perhaps someday Rosalie as well; nothing will ever change that, and nothing ever should."

I smiled in reassurance, bringing a hand up to the side of her worried face to calm her. "I know, Esme—and I really do appreciate the respect and support you've always given me." Her features relaxed, and I knew she could tell I was not offended by her request. "I was only just thinking of how different it would be to take a holiday now, as I have a few more things than just study and research to occupy my free time."

She smiled broadly, her hands weaving their way into my hair again as she kissed me deeply. "That you do," she concurred, allowing herself one more chaste kiss before snuggling back into her previous position, nuzzling sensuously as she descended to rest her head on my shoulder. We remained in a pensive silence for a few moments more, locked in each other's embrace.

I was the first to break the quiet. "We'll discuss this with Edward and Rosalie, if she wishes, as soon as I receive the maps."

"If she wishes?"

"Yes," I softly replied. "She may decide to go her own way, rather than follow us. Surely you have considered that, Esme?" She did not reply immediately, and I realized quickly that she had not.

"I can't imagine she would decide to venture off on her own," she said after a moment's pause, her voice firm. "She can barely stand to be left to herself for more than an hour at a time—you heard how she was at the house when she saw that I was leaving. It's practically her greatest fear, being alone."

She took a breath, leaning more of her weight into me and fitting herself as much to my own figure as possible, smiling as she felt me react, my arms instinctively pulling her closer still. However, she teased me no further, instead continuing on a tangent of her previous train of thought. "I think I will invite Rosalie to go on a few days' hunt alone with me, maybe to the mountains—I know I've always enjoyed them," she sighed, gazing pensively off into the woods.

"I believe Rosalie might be more inclined to open up to me," she continued, "apart from you and Edward; things are often easier to discuss with members of your own sex, as you and Edward are both well aware," she gave me a pointed look, reminding me of my heartfelt discussion with my son earlier that day. "I might even have the chance to help Rosalie lay to rest, so to speak, the struggles and injuries that remain from her human life—goodness knows I had _my _fair share."

I nodded as I absorbed the thought; the solemn tone of our conversation had certainly taken the edge off our heated delectation, though the feeling of her body pressed against me was certainly more than enough to drive me to distraction. But it was clear our time was drawing to a close; we would need to return home and, as Esme said, move forward with planning our departure. If all went well, we could leave within a fortnight's time.

I stood, bringing Esme to stand before me, the doleful expression on her face speaking the words that I felt guilty for thinking—_I don't want to return home, just yet._ It seemed so puerile, so irrational to hold such a deep, insatiable longing for her in light of the endless, eternal opportunities to love her as she deserved. I brought a hand to her face, kissing her gently as she clung to me.

"I know," I whispered against her lips. "But I promise you it will not be long before we will hold each other again, exclusively, secluded, and _uninterrupted_." I allowed my voice to fall into an irritated growl at the last word, and I felt Esme laugh against me, though her scent became unmistakably sweeter and fuller. I allowed myself to revel in the effect I could have on her with just a sound, my precious wife's desire found in me, alone.

Several moonbeams broke through the translucent, drifting clouds as the soft, spring breeze soughed through the budded boughs, sweeping across the skin of my stomach and blowing open the right side of my shirt—which Esme had, apparently, found the craftiness to fully unbutton without my detection.

I glanced down to find her beaming up at me, a sly grin on her face as she slowly raked her nails down my chest to the waistband of my trousers. I could feel my pupils dilating with the feelings her actions provoked, and my own fingers were quickly undoing the fastenings of her own garments—after all, it wouldn't do to return to Rosalie and Edward, and whatever context in which we would find them, bereft of adequate coverings. Edward was always quick to remind me of our perfect memories—though I never truly forgot—asserting that he wished for his to remain as ignorant of explicit details as possible.

"In that case," she said, "I think we need to seal that vow."

As a man of honor, I couldn't have agreed more.

* * *

Barely an hour had passed before we found ourselves nearing home, Esme cradled in my arms as I walked slowly, at a human's pace.

I had just finished redressing when she had leapt upon me from the front, her legs clamping onto my hips as my arms automatically drew under her, in support.

"What's this, sabotage?" I'd inquired, unable to keep a stern expression while observing the giddy expression on her face at our dalliance.

"No," she said, "I am simply requesting a ride home from a gentleman." I laughed with her, quickly shifting to carry her bridal-style as she set her bag on her lap, settling into my embrace.

"I'd be more than happy to oblige," I replied, knowing that she had sensed I was not ready to part from her—even our arrival home would be too soon. "And beyond that," I continued, "my arms were empty for over two and a half centuries—I'm not ready to let you go, just yet." I winked playfully, though the honesty in my statement was not lost.

Esme's smile faded slightly, her features softening as she brought a hand to the side of my face; I leaned into her touch, allowing my senses to guide my steps as I gave her my full attention. There was a warm glow in her sparkling, golden eyes, and the corners of her full lips were gently turned up. She raised her head, bringing a tender kiss to the corner of my mouth before speaking.

"And they'll never need to be empty again, so long as we both shall live."

I smiled at her statement, the truth of it still sinking in as we entered the yard, listening to the sounds of what appeared to be a scale on the piano; it didn't sound like Edward, and I paused, Esme and I exchanging anxious looks, bracing ourselves for the worst.

_G, A, B, C—_

_"__No,_ Rosalie, C-_sharp_," Edward growled.

Rosalie snapped. "Well, my last piano lesson wasn't exactly in this _life_, Ed, so just relax. I won't make the same mistake twice, so try to have a little patience."

"I think, under the circumstances," he replied, "I am being indubitably gracious. You should be thankful I'm allowing you to _touch_ my piano, even more so that I am standing here giving you a lesson and attempting to behave amicably." There was a pause, and I could only imagine what untowardly things Rosalie was thinking at him—there was no way they could have not heard our approach, and I was thankful, at least for Esme's sake, that the young woman inside was withholding audible comment.

"Thank you for understanding," Edward sighed, though his tone held far more sarcasm than his words allowed. "And _never_ call me 'Ed' again, or I will not be held responsible for my actions, Esme or no."

The scale began again—perfect this time—and I continued to the house, Esme holding to me tightly, as she always had, and always would.

* * *

Less than a week later, things had calmed substantially. Edward and Rosalie were much more courteous to each other, though much of that was attributed to the fact that they avoided one another as much as possible. Rosalie had taken to the piano—not so much as Edward had, but in her own, driven way—and Edward would allow her to play, provided it was under his own supervision. He claimed it was a way to ensure she didn't get carried away and accidentally break the keys, and though she protested, she allowed him to remain in the room if he agreed to give as little commentary as possible.

And so the compromises continued, allowing us, at least for a time, to achieve a delicate peace at home. The maps had arrived not a week later, and between the four of us, we were able to decide on a new location within a matter of hours. Though I was still hoping that we might find somewhere that would provide even a small opportunity for practice, the needs and desires of my family overruled it by far, and we were able to meet everyone's needs by choosing a general area to be explored—for Esme, a warm, southern climate and more frequent sunny days; for Edward, spacious hills with a wide range of game; and for Rosalie, who appeared offended when it was suggested that she may not wish to go with us, a secluded, sparsely-populated area.

After my family had settled on a general area of interest, I decided we would make our home somewhere in the southeastern wild of Kentucky. Nearly one hundred miles from Lexington, and just to the northwest of the Great Smokey Mountains, the area was used sparsely for mining and transport, from what my research led me to discern. It would be thick with game, enough to continually satisfy the needs of a newborn vampire; and with the mountains to the east, it would be rainy enough that if I could find work, daytime travel would not be entirely impossible. Esme was also excited at the prospect of building a new house, and was already eagerly compiling plans and a list of necessary supplies for construction.

And so it was settled. I would be giving my notice, and we would be leaving within a month's time.

Edward's courses at the University would be finished for the semester by then. Though the predicament with Rosalie necessitated his missing more classes than usually allowed, he had been more than capable of catching up with his coursework; with little more than a simple request from me, his teachers were all too willing to let such a bright student finish, provided he didn't miss further lectures. Relieved of the majority of his Rosalie duties, he had more than adequate time for study, and even greater opportunity for physical—and musical—exercise.

As discussed, Esme and I, as often as I could, accompanied Rosalie hunting. The announcement of our impending departure had thrown the young woman into a brooding despair, despite her recent, consistently improving mood. Edward cautioned us that her first thought upon my pronouncement had been of Royce, and that we should remain chary; her withdrawn temperament was uncharacteristically dubious, despite a spurious, unctuous charm that she seemed to believe was convincing.

It was less than a week after our meeting, in which plans for our exodus had been detailed and set into action, that Esme decided to take Rosalie hunting in The Adirondacks. Though the very thought of my wife's weeklong absence brought with it an aching sadness and a bitter longing, I knew it would be beneficial for everyone, and so I pushed my selfish desires aside. Beyond the mentioned objective of giving Esme a chance to open Rosalie and, perhaps, instigate healing, it would give Edward and I a chance to re-strengthen our bond as we worked on preparations for relocating and decided what to bring with us.

And so, the course of three days found me in my office, finishing the few remaining reports of the day and organizing patient notes to be filed before I headed home to be with my son. As I placed the final paper in its pile, I sat back in my chair with an accomplished sigh, looking out the window at the darkened streets. The sun had set hours ago, despite the days' increasing hours of daylight, and the lingering, cool weather kept most of the town indoors after sunset.

I was brought from my thoughts as I heard my name spoken from the lobby.

"I'm sorry, ma'am—no patients allowed beyond the lobby without a member of staff," a nurse barked.

"I need to see Dr. Carlisle Cullen," came a familiar, gentle—albeit insistent—voice. I gasped, my feet moving quickly, carrying me toward the sound—_Esme was here._ Sensing no one in my chosen path, I ran without restraint, practically flying in my desperation to get to her.

She continued, her steps hesitating as someone was clearly blocking her advance. "I'm his wife, Esme—please, it's urgent," she pleaded.

I slowed my steps as I reached the door to the lobby, walking at a brisk, human pace as I entered the large room; Esme rushed toward me instantly, a bit too quickly to go unnoticed if anyone had been paying attention. Luckily, most seemed too distracted by my entrance to be concerned.

"Oh, Dr. Cullen, this woman—" a nurse began, but I cut her off with a wave of my hand as Esme wrapped her arms around me, pressing her face into my chest as she held back a sob.

"It's all right," I assured the woman, who seemed to size up my wife with a look of disgust as she clung to me. I shot the nurse a dark look in return, and she seemed to shrink slightly, returning to the front desk to discuss, with the receptionist, her opinion on what kind of woman she believed I truly deserved.

Practically growling in disgust, I swiftly ushered Esme back through the doors, not stopping until we had reached my office, where I quickly shut the door. She collapsed into my arms instantly, and I picked her up as she sobbed, sitting us down on the floor as my dread grew.

"Esme, what's happened?"

She took a few, deep breaths before she was able to speak. "She's gone, Carlisle," she cried. "To where, I don't know—one minute, she was stalking a bear and in the next, she had disappeared."

_So, Rosalie was commencing with her final plans. _"Could you track her at all?" I asked.

She nodded, her eyes shut tightly as she turned away from me. "I followed her scent as far south as East Creek, where her scent disappeared into the Erie Canal."

"Then she's headed back to Rochester," I concluded. She looked at me, a weary, dismal expression marring her features.

Her head fell, and she averted her eyes. "I'm so sorry, Carlisle. I ran home as quickly as I could, and now Edward's out looking for her. I know there is nothing I could have done differently, I just wish…"

I shushed her as I stood, gathering my things and wrapping an arm around her in the blink of an eye, drawing her close to me as we strode from the building. "Of course there was nothing you could do—we've all known she wasn't going to let go of Royce easily. Let's just hope we find her before she finds him." We passed through the front entrance, and I nodded my goodnight to the staff as we stepped into the cool, evening air. It was chillingly similar to the night I had first found Rosalie.

"I'm a horrible person," Esme moaned.

I squeezed her arm with my hand, reaching over to plant a reassuring kiss on her forehead before placing my things in our car, explaining that we would come back for it later. "She might just as easily have run from me, or even Edward—you are not to blame for her actions, Esme."

"No, it's not that—it's just…"

I looked at her out of the corner of my eye as we rushed toward the Kings' well-known estate, unsure of where else to begin. "What is it, Love?"

She sighed. "You're going to hate me."

My mind began imagining what on earth could be going through her mind—had she not been entirely truthful in her depiction of what had occurred? Perhaps, had she even allowed Rosalie to go? I certainly couldn't believe she had _encouraged_ any such incident. "You know I could never hate you, Esme; I couldn't ever find it within me to so much as _dislike_ you." I stopped us, framing her face in my hands and pleading with her to tell me whatever it was that had her so dejected. "What is it?"

"I…it's just that after we talked some more, and Rosalie told me all she was feeling where Royce is concerned—" she stopped suddenly, squeezing her eyes shut and attempting to pull away.

I held fast. "No, Esme. Do not hide from me—whatever it is, please tell me."

When her eyes finally met mine again, they were wrought with a shame and an agony of which I had never before seen in her.

"Oh, Carlisle," she cried. "I hope she _does_ find Royce."

Then I understood: her time with Rosalie had, indeed, allowed Esme the one thing she so desperately wanted—to see things from Rosalie's perspective. And now, she couldn't help but want what the young woman so foolishly needed. Of course, Esme wouldn't have ever considered the personal repercussions of such an understanding. At her very heart, Esme was filled with unconditional love for anyone so fortunate as to find a place within it; however, in times such as these, such a blessing seemed more of a curse to her—for whatever pain a human parent might feel at seeing one's beloved child cause devastation to others—and entirely unconsciously, therefore, to themselves—my precious wife felt a thousand fold.

I drew her into my arms, sharing in her agony and wishing nothing more than to ease some of her suffering. She shuddered and shook within my sheltered embrace as I whispered reminders of my immutable love and how I cherished her, knowing it would do but little in light of her discouragement.

"We should go," she sighed after a brief moment. "We need to find Rosalie."

I began to open my mouth, knowing that there was little we could do now if she had gone to find her former betrothed, when I was interrupted.

"That won't be necessary," Edward's voice came from behind me, from the direction of the Kings' main property. I turned, expecting to find Rosalie with him, but he approached alone, no trace of her scent anywhere. "I…know where she is. You two should go home. I'll go get her."

I was immediately suspicious at his casual tone, which indisputably contradicted his tense form. "No, Edward," I argued. "I'll go with you; the situation may necessitate the both of us, should she need to be restrained."

He shook his head, averting his gaze. What was he hiding? "It's…difficult to explain. I only caught a few, errant thoughts from her before she was out of range, but I can tell you for certain that it won't be anything I can't handle alone."

Esme was as unconvinced as I. "Edward, please don't—"

He cut her off, looking us both directly in the eyes as he spoke. "_No_, Esme. It is too late for any of us to stop her. I'll make sure there are no witnesses and ensure there's no suspicious evidence left behind. Just go, both of you."

And with that he turned and took off west without giving us time to get another word in. So, silently, I brought a shaken and grief-stricken Esme into my arms, carrying us back to our car.

"Carlisle, she doesn't know," Esme whispered against the collar of my shirt as I walked, the westerly breeze carrying with it bits of Edward's scent—and Rosalie's. "She doesn't know what this will do to her."

* * *

It felt like ages as the seconds ticked by while Esme and I sat in our drawing room, awaiting the return of Edward and Rosalie. Esme had given up pacing and nervously gazing out the windows—unnecessary as it was, for we would hear them long before they came into view—and was miserably curled against me on the couch, her feet tucked to the side.

Her meek voice was the first to break the troubled silence. "You won't be too hard on her, will you?"

I shook my head, the movement stirring a portion of her hair that rested beneath my cheek, and I brought a hand up to smooth it, pressing a kiss her crown before laying my head against it again. "What's done is done," I sighed. "Obviously, my rebuke had little effect after her last offenses, determined as she was. As far as we know, she has no further personal injustices to avenge—she knows where we stand as far as her attitude is concerned."

Esme began to weep again, though silently, and I wrapped my arms more securely about her, not knowing the best way to comfort her. "It will be all right, Esme," I whispered against her forehead, placing light kisses all around her face, chasing away phantom tears with my lips before she captured my mouth with her own, a silent conveyance of her concurrence with my statement.

It wasn't until several minutes later that she pulled away, seeming to have regained much of her quotidian, inner strength, despite the weary sorrow that remained etched in her features. She laid her head on my shoulder, and I smiled lightly at its familiar feel—if nothing else, I could be strong for her, a constant refuge of support in times such as these, which seemed to be increasing in frequency with each new member in our family.

"It is a cruel and inclement world in which we abide," Esme offered, softly. "Those, at whose hands we have suffered immeasurable evil, are still as loved and admired by some others' as we are ourselves; when they meet their ends they are still mourned and grieved. Likely, the punishment, that seems so befitting to the executioner, is felt in greater measure by those who loved the condemned—particularly if they did not know of the man's guilt.

"I do not grieve so much for Rosalie," she explained, her voice tight with emotion she was struggling to control. "But for the King family, and Rosalie's; for those who will not ever understand the reasons behind these seemingly incomprehensible events. Our family can move on—theirs' may never."

I did not reply to her words—it was not necessary. She simply wanted to be heard, held, and loved, and that is what I did. A part of me had, naturally, considered this side of the situation. Every day, I witnessed family upon family torn apart as their loved ones' lives were claimed, whether by illness, accident or some act of violence. It never ceased to rock me to the very core of my being, seeing the sheer agony of inconsolable grief ripping through the bereaved like inescapable blades of torment.

My thoughts were interrupted, however, by the softest echo of footsteps—two travelers—reaching my ears. Esme stiffened immediately, and I warned her to hold her breath until we were certain no blood was freshly clinging to either Rosalie or Edward.

"She spilled no blood," Edward answered me simply, from their distance. Neither of them spoke as they approached the house, and Esme moved to stand, but I held her close to me. We still did not know of what temperament Rosalie was at the present time, and it would be better to remain in the most inoffensive positions possible.

Moments later, the front door opened, closing almost immediately before Edward walked into the room, meeting my eyes and simply stating, "It's done," before moving to sit on his piano bench, facing us. A pungent odor of malt liquor and cinder swept across the room before him, and Esme instinctively pushed herself into the back of the couch, away from the lingering smell of smoke and flames.

It was a good minute before Rosalie shuffled in, head down—defeated. Her flaxen hair was pulled halfway up, several ringlets falling down to frame the side of her face while a mass of curls cascaded down her back and over her shoulders.

More disturbing was her sartorial manner—whereas she had packed a simple bag of suitable hunting clothes before her departure, she now appeared as a dressmaker's mannequin in a shop window. White lace framed her slender frame atop white satin from the "v" of its neckline to the hem of the full skirt, tapered sleeves making her arms seem even longer and swishing tulle accentuating her every, graceful step as she walked into the room. The bridal gown certainly hadn't been tailored to her—the bodice was too large around the waist, the skirt too short; its material was singed brown in several places, which led to some concern for her well-being on my part; but overall, she seemed to be unscathed. Her arms were relaxed at her sides, a crowning veil of silk ribbon and pearl barely hanging from the tips of her fingers on her slackened, left hand. The same, ominous perfume of burning matter surrounded her as well, adding to the foreboding of her already disquieting appearance.

We waited in silence as Rosalie stood entirely still before us, the very embodiment of a phantom bride. Once a minute had passed without any indication that Rosalie was going to speak of her own volition, I decided to prompt her.

"Tell us what happened," I charged.

Without hesitation, though her eyes remained focused on the floor in front of her skirt, she answered. "Once I got away from Esme, I swam west in the canal for a few miles, until I was sure she wouldn't be able to pick up my scent. When I got back to the city, I broke into a shop in town and stole the wedding dress from the window—it was the one I had wanted anyway, though my parents were too miserly to buy it for me.

"I ran to the King's estate once I had managed to assemble my outfit, only to overhear his staff mentioning that Royce," she growled at the name, "had relocated to their original home, outside and to the west of the city.

"So I went there…and finished him." She looked up briefly at her remark, a small light of victory glowing in her eyes before she looked down again, almost sadly.

I was about to ask for more detail, considering it was already confirmed that she had, again, refrained from making Royce bleed, when Edward spoke again. "You'll know soon enough, Carlisle. We spread the copious amount of alcohol we found near him about the room and lit it, but the flames attracted people sooner than we had hoped."

"How soon?" I queried.

"They pulled him out within two minutes." He scoffed, "Several people risked their lives to salvage his body. If only they had known…"

I felt Esme shudder beside me, and held her closer, silently communicating that I understood, remembering our conversation from earlier. "I see. Was there any other evidence that they found that could make them suspicious? Any witnesses?"

"No," Rosalie answered, though my question had been, unconsciously, directed toward Edward. "I had just broken the lock on the door, and so we shut it as soon as the fire had started—they never suspected a thing. There were two guards, but I snapped their necks." I grimaced at her offhanded account, and she seemed to shrink back, remorseful.

Looking to Edward, he nodded his accord, and I looked back to Rosalie, knowing what needed to be done. "Rosalie, go upstairs and change, and bring that dress back down with you."

Edward stood, having heard my plan. "I'll go get a bucket of water."

Rosalie looked at Edward as he passed, confused, but he ignored her. She turned to us, an oddly out-of-place desperation on her face. "Aren't you going to yell at me?"

I blinked, surprised at her outburst. "No."

She looked to Esme. "I tricked you—I made you think I was opening up and then I ran away. You hate me, don't you?"

Esme stood and walked to Rosalie, a kind of determined affection present on her face as she approached the lamentable girl. "I could never hate you dear," she spoke, softly. "I'm disappointed, but I know that you needed to find closure."

As soon as Esme was near enough, Rosalie crumpled, her arms wrapping about Esme's waist as she fell to her knees. "But I _didn't_ find closure—it's just another beginning," she sobbed.

Esme slid down to the young woman's level as I walked over to them, kneeling and placing my hand on her back. Rosalie broke her embrace with my wife, turning and throwing her arms around my neck, burying her face in my shoulder—the one that Esme had, just recently, needed as well. The metaphor was not lost on me, and from the gleam in her eye beneath her unabashed concern for Rosalie, I could tell that my Love had not missed it, either.

Esme slid over until she was directly beside us, softly rubbing Rosalie's back as the newborn sobbed uncontrollably. "It really never _concludes_, dear—it's something you will always carry with you," my wife sighed, a weight of wisdom heavy in her words and in her eyes.

"It's not fair," Rosalie wailed, her words muffled only slightly in the fabric of my jacket. I tightened my arms around her, knowing, personally, what it was like in the early days of my life, feeling damned and forsaken. "Why should _I _be cursed to live with this until the end of time?"

"It won't always be like this, dear," Esme affirmed, her hand moving to stroke Rosalie's hair, brushing stray tendrils away from her face. "Yes, it will never leave you, but if you can find the means to stop holding onto it so tightly—to let it go little by little—then maybe, just maybe—" she paused looking me in the eye and placing her free hand on my cheek— "something so unexpected will take its place, so perfect in its imperfection that you can hardly take your eyes off of it. And it will see your broken and scarred heart, see the beauty underneath, and hold it, and wipe away its tears, and love it."

Though she rarely spoke of it anymore, I knew Esme's own human experience had an ongoing effect on her, even to this day. My love and devotion was healing her, little by little, but it was going to be a continuous process; and I would be there for every minute—every moment of every minute.

Rosalie began to cry harder. "Never," she wailed. "It'll never happen."

We sat with her until she calmed, offering gentle words of encouragement and forgiveness as she lay desolately against me. One of her arms eventually unwound from its place around my shoulders, hand seeking out Esme's, finding and holding it tightly.

Eventually, she sat back on her legs, though Esme and I, each, held one of her hands. She seemed to need the contact. "I don't know what I'll do now," Rosalie sighed, her face blank. "My entire purpose, up 'til now, has been to make those men pay for what they did to me. Now that I've succeeded, I really don't…"

I squeezed her hand, standing at the reminder of what needed to be done, yet. "It will come, Rosalie. I didn't find medicine to be my true calling for at least fifty years after I entered this life, and I didn't find Esme, my real reason for existence," Esme laughed, and I winked, "for almost two hundred and sixty."

Esme smiled up at me, lightheartedly nudging Rosalie. "Oh no, he found me almost two hundred and fifty years later—he just didn't know it when he saw me," she joked, soothingly playing with some of Rosalie's hair. "But at least I managed to catch his eye—even if he didn't see my love at first, he was, at least, affected by it."

Our badinage seemed to only throw Rosalie further into her depression, however. "It's easy for you two to talk about healing and purpose—you've already found it, mainly in _each other_."

"Don't worry, dear," Esme sighed, cradling Rosalie's hand between both of hers as she stood, encouraging Rosalie to do the same. "You'll find your Carlisle—I'm sure of it."

Rosalie stood, without reply, and Esme led her upstairs and helped her out of her dress. I walked outside to our shed, quickly finding within it a rusted, closed-top metal barrel. Digging my fingers in easily, I ripped off the top and brought it out to the middle of the yard where Edward was already waiting with a bucket and some matches.

Within seconds, Esme and Rosalie emerged, and I motioned for her to place the folded dress and veil within the metal drum. Only then, seeing the matches, did she realize what I meant for her to do. I handed each member of my family a match, and, ensuring she was careful, instructed Rosalie to strike hers first.

She walked confidently to the barrel, clearly no more than a façade, and placed the tip of her match to the barrel. She used too much force, however, the small stick of wood splintering in less than a second—her mask faltered, and the despair from before returned. Taking another from the box, I handed it to her with a reassuring look, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder, and Esme mirrored my gesture.

With a steady, calculating hand, Rosalie lit the match, watching the flame's colors emerge as the wood was slowly engulfed. She dropped it, every eye watching as it fell slowly with the gentle pull of gravity; it landed just beside the edge of the barrel, on top of the veil, the tulle and ribbon catching first.

Then, one by one, we each struck our own lights—first Edward, then Esme, and I, last of all—the four of us looking on as each of our efforts increasingly engulfed the reminder of Rosalie's wrath. Esme had been right—nothing would ever completely erase the past. Our memories were perfect; our love was fallible, and inadequate to heal the wounds. We would all continue to make mistakes—but it was our forgiveness and ever-growing love for each other that would keep us together.

The phone rang, suddenly, the shrill cry through the night air a bleak reminder that our family was not the only concern at the moment. Rarely did I actually receive calls at home—only in the case of emergencies—and there was no doubt in my mind as to the nature of this one. Three pairs of eyes were on me instantly, and I exchanged brief looks with each between rings of the telephone before rushing inside to answer it.

After a casual greeting, an uneasy voice addressed me directly. "Dr. Cullen, this is Sergeant Richards of the Rochester Police Department. I apologize for calling so late, but I am in need of your assistance."

I glanced at the time. _Ten o'clock._ "That's quite all right, my wife and I were just about to get ready for bed," I lied, easily. "What can I do for you?"

"Well," the Sergeant answered, clearly disconcerted. "There's been an accident, we think, out at the old King's place, past Elmgrove, off Spencerport Road. We need a coroner, and we can't get a hold of Dr. French at the hospital. They gave us your number…"

I answered immediately. "Of course I'd be willing to help. I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Take your time, Doctor," he replied. "There's nothing to be done but fill out a report. We'd take the body to a hospital, but…well, I'll explain when you get here."

I hung up the phone to find Esme waiting for me, with my bag. She walked me out to the car, giving me a soft kiss as I stepped in. She handed me my bag, and I took it with a grim look.

"I won't need it, Esme."

She ran her fingers through my hair, a gesture I found soothing, though I knew it was more to calm herself. She sighed. "I know. But if you can't take me with you, at least take this to remind you of our support, no matter what happens."

I nodded and she leaned down to kiss me once more, closing the door after she had reluctantly pulled away. Starting the car, I shifted it into gear, turning my head to gaze at her through the window.

"I love you, Esme."

"And I you, my Carlisle," she answered with a pained smile as her form became ever smaller in my rearview mirror. "And I you."


	18. Progress

_I own neither _Twilight_ nor Carlisle. If you do, please talk to me—I'm sure we can come up with some sort of deal._

_So...remember me? I'm still alive. This chapter was rough to get out there, but I hope the extreme effort is worthwhile. I'll try to update more often than every leap year from now on._

_Bananapancakes7, dear friend…there are no words on a page (or computer screen) to match your indescribable awesomeness. (Yes, I totally ruined the archaic quality of that sentence by using the word "awesomeness.")  
I know I say it all the time, guys, but really—you should check out her story if you haven't yet. What the hell are you waiting for?_

_Extra thanks to Elise Shaw for recommending this story on "The Lazy, Yet Discerning Ficster." Esme certainly _has_ come into her own in this fic, hasn't she?_

**Graphic Material Warning**: _Let's just say…Royce isn't doing so well. If Scalpelisle does it for you, then I hope you enjoy it. But if you're not a fan of post-mortem tracheal dissections (and/or don't even __**want**__ to know what that is), you have been warned. Also, if this disclaimer is, indeed, for you, you may want to tread carefully toward the end of the chapter.  
_

_

* * *

  
_

I drove up the short path to the estate, an eldritch, late evening mist having settled around the outskirts of the city, mingling with the centralized, residual smoke from a few hours past. The Kings' normally unemployed house was glowing through the fog like an eerie lighthouse amidst a sea of chaos, every observable room lighted as though it would ward off the very demons of hell.

The discussions of officials and whispered conversations of onlookers met my ears before the building had even come into view, and now the words were nearly deafening accounts of a gruesome scene that I had yet to personally observe. It did little to soften the pang of grief within me at what I would have to face—the consequences of Rosalie's dealings; and, therefore, my own. For some, our immortal world mirrored a forsaken, eternal wasteland mixed with the strife of a lost humanity; and I had deprived the young woman of the alternative: the everlasting peace of death.

I could immediately detect the scent of burned flesh above that of the smoldering structure—molecules of evaporated hemoglobin and plasma, scorched collagen and subcutaneous tissues assaulting my senses. As I parked the car in front of the large home, my learned instincts leaped within me, and I felt the familiar, almost irresistible urge to run toward the injured. However, I held myself back, knowing this was not a life-or-death situation, but only the latter.

Sergeant Roberts met me at the front door of the aged, economical structure, which the King family had been rumored to have kept as a reminder of their roots—though it seemed that at least one heir to the empire had allowed the delinquent tendencies of a comfortable life to lead him, with the attractively cloaked hands of a grim reaper, into a wanton and untimely death. He began giving me the details, most of which I had already learned from Edward and Rosalie.

As I followed a small, albeit unnecessary group of policemen through the various hallways of the home, I couldn't help but consider the cruel irony in the merciful tragedy of Royce's early demise: his family would never know his true nature; never would they grieve for themselves, anguishing over what they might have done to cause their son to become so wayward. Of course, that was considering the Kings were anything like I, or Esme. From our own experience, the pain of a child's willful immortality—even that of a surrogate family member—ran deep and perdurable. At least for a human, there would one day be an end to their suffering, and, perhaps, a reuniting of souls so unfortunately severed. Though, for Royce, I was almost certain there would be no heaven.

Though I didn't need the guidance, I was led down to an old root cellar, where the putrid smell was the most concentrated. I barely suppressed a shiver at the memories it brought, myself having endured three, excruciating days in just such a place. Though it was, undoubtedly, just as murky as the cellar in which I had once briefly resided, the low-ceilinged room was now lit with more than a dozen lanterns and portable lamps, as the room was not wired for electricity. Taking in my surroundings in the unnaturally brightly-lit basement, I noted dozens of stacks of crates to my left, lined and arranged against the wall—the scent of liquor that laced empty bottles hung in the air, though it was, though it was barely detectable beneath the fetid stench of seared flesh. To my fore, beside an open, slanted cellar door, was some sort of makeshift kitchen, consisting of a small wood-burning stove and a wooden tub, still damp, as though it had recently been emptied. Several officers were removing the bodies of two rather large men through the small door, and I knew they were the guards Rosalie had mentioned—I would have to examine them later.

As I turned to the right, I then faced the scene for which I had been summoned. The room had been recently excavated in that corner; the earthen wall had been replaced with a large, steel frame and door, at least ten feet wide and high. It looked like what would eventually be a fallout shelter, combined with aspects of a bank's vault—highly unique in its conception and construction, for its time.

A small crowd of officers, firemen, and what appeared to be the house's staff were spread out around the room, and hushed themselves when I entered. In any other circumstance, I might have assumed it was from my physical appearance; however, from the context of their conversations, it was because they were all extremely anxious to know if there was any foul play involved.

I could feel the heat emanating from the closed door of the provisional shelter, and though my self-preservation instincts reared within me, they were easily overcome by more urgent matters—namely, the corpse that lay beneath the sheet, before the steely, bolted entrance of his supposed sanctuary. Though my momentary evaluation of the scene had taken little more than a second, I felt as though I had stalled too long, and moved quickly to kneel beside the body.

I could feel every eye on me, and quickly asked the nearest officer to remove any persons that did not need to be in the room. After a minute had passed Sergeant Richards and two officers were the only ones left.

The Sergeant was just finishing with his report. "A few of the house's staff saw the flames from the chamber's air vents and rushed down here as quickly as they could. The locks on the cellar's outside door were missing, nowhere to be found, though the lock on the steel door was still intact. Because of the thickness and construction of Mr. King's shelter, he'd locked himself in a crematory, of sorts. It's a good thing they were able to pull him out when they did."

As I pulled back the covering, I was not shocked by what I saw. From what I had already heard, I knew what to expect, and it was actually better than I had anticipated. One officer, however, turned away quickly, and began retching in the corner. "Was anyone else injured?" I asked calmly, hoping to divert the officers' attentions, even slightly, from the grisly sight before them.

Looking up, I saw Sgt. Richards pale, and he swallowed heavily before answering. "The men who pulled him out have some burns on their hands and arms, but they've already been transported to the hospital."

It never failed to amaze me what an amazing creation the human body is—how it can withstand almost unthinkable amounts of trauma, even in death. Royce's limbs were burned much like tree branches, the flames having licked and bitten at the thin epidermis, frying and peeling it off. The thicker layer of skin underneath, the dermis, had shriveled in the heat and split, revealing the yellowed layer of fat beneath. This layer halted his cremation somewhat, lipids acting much like candle wax in flames, needing a wick, such as clothing or charred wood in order to be consumed.

"We, uh—we didn't want to move him without your determination of cause," the wan sergeant continued as I performed a practiced, though superfluous, examination. "He looks like he could disintegrate with any attempt to move him."

"You did say they dragged him out, didn't you?" Unceremoniously, I flexed the distal forelimb to make my point; and apart from the crackle of the flesh and rigored protest of its muscles, it remained perfectly intact. The officer began heaving again.

Royce's neck had been broken in, startlingly, the same manner as Esme's had been; it had, no doubt, been her intention to immobilize him and leave him to a slow, lingering death. The only other injuries I could externally determine were a torn tunica albuginea, a premortem injury evidenced by a swollen and misshapen penis, and internal rupturing of the testicles within the scrotum, likely caused by an external pressure—such as a vampire's crushing grasp.

I reached into my bag and procured a scalpel, giving a general warning to the men present before proceeding. "You may want to turn away."

All three decided to take my suggestion, and I sliced into Royce's body without further pause. I knew what I was looking for, so there was no need for a thorough upper respiratory examination. Locating the laryngeal prominence, I sliced vertically through the cartilage and fat, peeling it aside before cutting cleanly into the trachea. The tell-tale swelling and damage of the interior passage of the airway was enough for a truthful report of the COD. I would have to do a complete autopsy to make the statement official, but for the current purposes of damage control for Rosalie's actions, it would do.

His final end had been from respiratory failure, due to smoke inhalation. Entirely paralyzed, it was likely he had felt the flames lap at his body for a short while before unconsciousness took hold. It was, again, Rosalie's own signature, poetic justice—she had burned for three days before her heart beat its last; it did seem just, in a cruel, heartless way. But I could not see the right in it.

After giving the officers my unofficial determination, and asking that the body be transported to the morgue for my official report, Sergeant Richards walked me to my car, the man still slightly shaken from having to suffer through the entire ordeal. "Do you think it could've been a ghost that did him in, Doctor Cullen?" he asked as I opened my door.

"I don't believe in ghosts, sir," I replied, quickly masking any immediate reaction of surprise at his sudden query. "Malicious spirits, however—those I have seen in countless number." Indeed, it was the predominant emotion in most uncouth, vagrant vampires I had encountered, particularly in one I was, currently, responsible for. "Out of curiosity, why do you ask?"

"Oh, just one of the servants says he saw the ghost of Rosalie Hale in a bridal gown, floating across the yard before disappearing into the night." He chuckled darkly, though he was clearly disturbed. "And what with those bodyguards having died, and how unlikely it is that anyone could have gotten to him…"

He trailed off, shaking his head in riddance of the idea before bidding me a good night and thanking me for my time. I knew that being truthful in my reports was the best method of deferring suspicion—the injuries were consistent with the murders of Royce's four other companions and no one would have reason to believe it was anything but yet another incident in the recent series of mysterious murders.

I drove homeward, weary with the burden of guilt. Though it had not been my hand that dealt Royce's mortal sentence, I couldn't help but feel culpable—it had been _my_ choice to change Rosalie, part of me hoping she might be to Edward what Esme was to me. Of course, it had been my own decision to bring Esme into this world; not Esme's, and not Edward's—and he couldn't ever know what had been in my heart and mind as I brought Rosalie into our lives, or it would drive him even further from her.

As I drove home, I silently made a vow to never again create a vampire with the intention of their existence being for another, if their happiness could not be guaranteed. Though good, my intentions, thus far, had seemed to only cause strife for my beloved family.

Despite the despair into which I found myself sinking, there remained a glimmer of optimism, which I could only attribute to Esme's influence—perhaps Rosalie might find some hope of her own in this life, now that she could leave her past behind, and look to the future.

* * *

When I arrived home, Rosalie and Edward remained in their respective spaces—Rosalie in her room, and Edward at his piano. Only Esme left her place in our room to meet me at the door, taking off my coat and offering to draw me a bath. I managed a small smile at her attempt to keep her expression encouraging as the smell of filth exuded from my person.

She accompanied me upstairs and started the water while I stripped off the offending garments; and after folding them into a neat pile and placing them in the sink, where it would be easy to scrub away any residual odor, I stepped into the hot water. Esme entered the bathroom only once, briefly, to wordlessly take my soiled clothes and leave new ones. She did lean down before leaving, placing a soft, almost phantom kiss upon my lips as I lay against the porcelain with my eyes closed, the bathroom door closing soon afterwards.

My sweet wife knew I needed to be alone—I had been a mere observer of the events of the night, and had yet to allow my mind to fully process what I had seen. Yet, she did not leave me entirely lonesome; the heat of the bath was akin to the warmth that enveloped me whenever she was near, and the light scent of the lavender and orange blossoms that she had added was a constant reminder of her, almost as though she were the one holding me in the water's stead.

I lost track of time as I sought to collect the veritable farrago of scattered thoughts and feelings, sorting through and compartmentalizing as best I could. There was much to do; yet, how little there was to be done—our family had already agonized over this so much, and there was not much more to be said about the matter. It was finished, or at least I hoped it was—Rosalie had accomplished her selfish errand, as far as we knew it, and I doubted she had further grudges to satisfy.

By the time I had redressed and returned to my room, I was confident that I could move past it, and in doing so, could bring my family with me. They would look to me for leadership in uncertainty, and I would need to provide that guidance, no matter what.

I sat down upon our bed, laying back and allowing my legs to remain hanging over the edge as I closed my eyes. It was but a mere physical representation of my inner desire for mental rest and peace. Though I felt confident that this disastrous situation was coming to a close, I had never before felt my mental faculties stretched in so many different directions all at one time. Though it was not too much for my mind to handle, it was an entirely new and slightly intense experience, and I needed a respite.

As though she had heard my thoughts, Esme came softly padding into the room at that very moment. The bed gave slightly under her weight as she sat beside my legs, her shoes hitting the floor with light taps as she kicked them off before crawling up to lay beside me, half on top of me, and her head came to rest on my chest as her arm curled around my ribs. Neither of us spoke or moved for a long while, apart from my arms finding their favorite places around her small frame as I held her to me. Her loving presence was enough for me—to bask in the tranquility that went hand-in-hand with her tender affection.

I was brought from my thoughts by a knock on our open door, and I knew without looking that it was Rosalie.

"Yes, dear?" Esme's voice vibrated against my chest.

Rosalie shifted her weight, clearly having been practicing her human-like fidgeting. "I thought Carlisle would want to talk to me."

Her voice was quiet, passive, and I realized that she was anticipating that I would perorate and scold. But I realized that we had all stewed over this issue long enough, and to discourse about it much longer would be inefficacious. However, I had no idea how to help Rosalie get past it, or what she needed in order to move on.

With a heavy sigh, I sat up, Esme moving likewise to sit on her knees behind me. I sat on the edge of the bed, facing Rosalie, who appeared downtrodden in the doorway. Unsure of what to do, I spoke the first words that entered my mind.

"Are you contrite?"

She seemed taken aback, and I could tell she thought this question to be repetitive, though it was, most certainly, not. There had been an adequate amount of time for her to re-consider her actions, and their effects on everyone else, and from her reaction at her return, I knew she was not entirely heartless. Broken and hurt, but not cold or without feeling.

A momentary look of complete vulnerability passed over Rosalie's form before she immediately squelched it, a prideful conceit taking over immediately. "I don't see why I should be traduced," she huffed. "Royce was the villain; I feel the city owes me a debt of gratitude for purging its streets of such scum."

I could feel Esme's jagged intake of breath behind me, and I could imagine the hurt expression on her face at Rosalie's arrogance—though to me, it was but mere pretentiousness. I could see past the façade she was putting up for fear of breaking down again; I knew what it was to build up strong defenses and feel the terror of having them torn through—and furthermore, I knew the resistance to change that was rooted deeply within the vampire's spirit.

So without a word, I took Esme's hand and held it, in reassurance, before meeting Rosalie's stubborn gaze and holding it, similarly. We were at a crossroads, and Rosalie's future with us, if there was to be such a thing, was dependent on her ability to trust us—and therefore, for _us_ to trust _her_.

I could see from her expression that there was more going on than what we were aware. There was something that nagged at my mind, triggered by the unadulterated despairing gaze that attempted to glower menacingly back at mine—her attitude since her return had been almost mournful, as though she hadn't truly accomplished what she had set out to do. Though at first, I had attributed this solely to her conscience's condemnation, a different picture was quickly forming, due in great part to the deductive organization of my few moments' solitude.

My mind slipped back to the memory of how she had killed Royce—the unique way in which his neck had been broken was almost a tribute to Esme; a small piece of selflessness even among gross selfishness. But there was so much fuel there; I doubted she could have escaped unscathed if it hadn't been for—

And there it was: the missing piece of the puzzle.

_Had she intended to see to her own end, as well?_ She knew of the one means to our death, thanks to my own disclosure, and it was probable that she had planned to never return from her final act of vengeance. Edward's behavior before he left to find her had been even more for our sake than I had considered—he had literally saved her from herself. Was that yet another cause of her grief?

My words were little more than a whisper as our gaze remained unbroken. "You never meant to return from there, did you?"

Rosalie looked away with a hiss, though pain washed over her features as soon as my words reached her.

Esme gasped and leapt from the bed. "Oh, no, Rosalie—no, no," she cried, taking Rosalie into her arms. I expected the young woman to pull away, but she barely moved.

"I know what it's like to be so lost, Rosalie," Esme continued, "and it's wrong to think that way—so, _so _wrong."

Rosalie remained brokenhearted. "There was nothing more I wanted in the world—to die, and to take Royce with me. I can't see how it was wrong, but it certainly doesn't feel right anymore."

Her words struck like a bell of warning in my heart, and I immediately began to relive the countless experiences I'd had with every sort of broken, tortured individual—the blinding power of human want is so staggering, its control on belief so wholly encompassing that creatures great and small, finite and infinite have no alternative but to remain enslaved—eternally.

"Be careful, Rosalie," I warned, though my tone was soft. "When you want something badly enough, and believe that the truth will take it away from you, that truth can be seen as nothing but error. Never fear what you think you will lose, when it is all gain in the end."

"_Gain_?" she scoffed. "What is there to be had in this life except what will please me?"

Her words came so quickly and unexpectedly that I was, briefly, taken aback. Even Esme seemed to have no words as her eyes closed in sorrow, merely holding Rosalie tighter. The young woman's statement was so arbitrary to every core belief I had ever known, so divergent from the very foundation of who I was, and had become. I had to remind myself that she was only yet eighteen years old—the matured perspective I had on the world was rare, even among our kind, and I could not expect her to understand immediately; and particularly when she was so emotionally capricious, it was best to tread with caution.

I chose my words carefully. "After only a few, short years of existence, Rosalie, you will find that, like your reprisal with Royce, there is something entirely _wrong _in living only for your own interests. I do not expect, nor anticipate, that you would adhere to my religious views on the matter, but you should, at least, consider Edward and Esme's own experiences."

"He's right, dear," Esme interjected. "We can't always choose the path we find ourselves on—but you can choose how you live, and in so doing, choose your happiness."

Rosalie remained smug, though I could tell she was at least absorbing our words—her eyes had softened, and she seemed less sure of herself.

"Regardless," I continued, standing in conclusion, "until you find the means of seeing the truth, Rosalie, I will provide a firm guideline to assist you: hold to our way of life, or go your own way."

Her conceited expression fell, her face becoming a perfect picture of disbelief, before she set her jaw, straightening her spine even further as she looked me squarely in the eye. "I swear to you, I will never kill another human being so long as I live. I would rather burn than become an outcast."

I met her gaze firmly, reaching out my hand in an offer. "Well, then, I will ask again—are you contrite?"

Her internal contention was apparent as she stared at the tangible representation of my outstretched proposition, her expression of one backed into a corner. Esme gently urged her forward, but gave no intimation of force. Rosalie knew this to be a turning point in her life—as unhappy as she was, we both knew she was not so foolish as to give up everything she had to pursue unsatisfying, immediate gratification. To take my hand would mean safety and security, a loving and supportive home in which she could thrive and grow—but it would also mean becoming inured to a life of self-sacrifice, the constant, daily fight to die to her deepest instincts and strivings. Though she was no voluptuary, she still remained enslaved by her newborn mind, which revolved around nothing but personal requital and rancor.

Suddenly, Rosalie's gaze darted behind and to her right, and I then realized that Edward was standing behind her, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed in front of him. His expression was entirely serious as he met my questioning gaze, and he barely repressed a roll of his eyes as Esme leaned around to shoot him a similar expression of curiosity.

"Rosalie Hale has requested my presence at her official entrance into the Cullen family, if I'm amenable," he stated. He looked to Rosalie, then added, "Which I am."

"I mean it," Rosalie snapped. "I'm not going to be any part of this if you're going to be horrible to me all the time."

Edward's expression hardened. "If you mean that you expect me to worship the ground on which you walk, then I suggest you lower your expectations."

An almost bashful expression passed over Rosalie's face, and she seemed almost flustered, momentarily. "I didn't—that's not what I meant, and you know it," she muttered, irritably. "I just…is it too much to ask for you to even _like_ me?"

"At present, yes."

"Edward!" Esme reproached. "That is an insolent and childish thing to assert."

Though I had expected Rosalie to lash out in response, she merely dropped her head, her arms wrapping around herself, her entire countenance crestfallen. I remained silent, wondering at his logic, but seeing a deeper meaning in his use of '_at present.'_

As though prompted, though I had a sneaking suspicion he was quite literally on a similar train of thought, Edward replied calmly and resolutely.

"I said _at present_, Esme—you know how I felt about you at first." She nodded, looking somewhat regretful of her outburst. "Well, we've both changed, in little ways, since then—and my opinion is quite different than it was at first.

"And though I make no promises, Rosalie," he said, and her head immediately lifted so she could look him in the eye, "if you are willing to adjust your own attitude, perhaps I can be convinced, likewise."

A small, meek smile slowly crept into her features, and she stepped out of Esme's arms quickly, stretching out her own hand to grasp mine, pausing only momentarily before pulling herself forward to tightly embrace me. Shock rolled through me at the sudden gesture, feeling a bit of pain at how tightly she was latched about me, though I was also entirely relieved at the change of atmosphere. It was as though the sun had finally broken through after a storm, the threatening clouds now drifting away, and the promise of fair weather bright on the imminent horizon.

* * *

News of the "ghost bride" that was seen leaving the scene led to further speculation by the general population of Rochester, which became increasingly determined in the belief that it, indeed, had been Rosalie—though many incorrectly speculated that the young man with whom she was seen had been the spirit of Royce, joining her in the afterlife.

However romanticized the grim scenario had become within the local gossip circles, the increased public interest forced the police to conduct an in-depth investigation into the possible connection between Rosalie's disappearance and the recent chain of murders. The newest addition to our family asked that we remain in the city until the case was closed; seeming to be a reasonable request, I agreed to it.

Esme and Edward began the slow process of transporting to Kentucky, via truck, the majority of our belongings. My wife was already in correspondence with a building contractor in Lexington; having already learned the basics of construction and design on her own, she had been enjoying drawing up plans for a larger home and perfecting them under the educated eye of a professional.

Rosalie read the papers daily, anxious for even the tiniest development in the case; it was all we could do to keep her from contacting the police personally, as she seemed to have developed a new taste for theatrical, spectral appearances. However, she begged to be allowed to send in anonymous leads—namely, contacts that might have seen Royce and his friends that night—which she managed to deliver with great stealth and cunning.

Apparently, her conniving and imaginative mind was even more effective when being productively covert than it had in being destructively wicked. But despite her valiant efforts, the police's trail ran cold after only a few weeks into the summer, and Rosalie became more frustrated by the moment at the police's seeming "ineptitude" in solving her disappearance. It seemed to me that there was a great deal of conspiracy in their having found no evidence of guilt in Royce or his accomplices, and Rosalie was nearly homicidal with rage at my speculation. Yet she remained obedient to our commands, allowing the world of humans to continue as it was, untouched by her transcendent knowledge. We could not interfere any more.

Eventually, at the end of August, it was Royce's own sister that came forward—physically ailing from the strain of a tortured conscience—and testified to her brother and his friends' appearances as they returned home that fateful evening.

We left the next day, Rosalie sitting in the backseat of our car, talking amicably with my wife, who sat beside me, her hand clasped in mine whenever I didn't need it to shift. Edward opted to run, instead, never venturing too far from his ability to keep in touch with us. Though I suspected the real reason for his distance was the seemingly endless conversation between the two women—they simply never seemed to find topics on which to discourse, and I found myself longing for silence after only a few hours, despite the happiness that I felt at the ease with which Rosalie was fitting into our family.

* * *

We were just south of Pittsburgh at sunset when the car's engine stalled, exhaling a few final, pitiful sputters before falling entirely silent, and the rest of the mechanisms in the car slowly whirred to a stop as I steered the drifting vehicle to the side of the road. Attempting to re-start it several times with no success, I got out, walked to the front, and lifted the hood as Edward appeared at my side. I silently berated myself for never having studied automobile mechanics as I gazed helplessly at the unknown metal organs that lay lifeless inside the body of the car.

"Automobile anatomy is a bit different than homo sapiens', Carlisle," Edward joked. I chuckled, but continued to look under the hood, as though I could somehow diagnose the issue without knowing where to begin. Edward requested that Esme try the starter again, and observed the mechanics assiduously as they strove to ignite the engine.

Edward straightened after a short while, stepping back slightly as he made his assessment. "I think it's the distributor, or the points. Perhaps the engine overheated—"

He was cut off by an irritated sigh from Rosalie as she leapt from the car. "You really don't know anything about cars, do you?"

"To the contrary, I've studied them a great deal," Edward growled, a frustrated attempt at patience surrounding his tight gaze as he glared at Rosalie. She simply ignored him, standing between him and the machinery and politely asking Esme to try the starter again.

"Can't you hear that, Edward?" she spoke to him over her left shoulder. "The plugs are firing just fine, and Franklins are air-cooled, so it's unlikely to have overheated. You're just not getting any gas—it's the fuel pump."

I was incredulous. "You seem to know much about cars, Rosalie."

She turned to me with a flip of her hair, a wide, proud grin on her full lips. "My older brother had a best friend, whose family repaired and sold cars of all sorts. For years, I used to follow them to the shop after school and talk to his father while he worked on them."

It was at that moment a passing car stopped about ten feet down the road from us. Rosalie held her breath, getting into the car with Esme at a human's pace as two men exited, coming to see what the trouble was—though mainly, they seemed more interested in catching as many glimpses of Rosalie as they could. Edward and I put on our best performances as they listened to the engine heave and poked around the various parts, eventually deciding it _was _the fuel pump, and offering to head into Pittsburgh for us.

We made an excuse of having relatives at a nearby home, and the men left with a tip of their hats to the ladies in the car. As I watched them drive away, Edward immediately placed a hand on my arm in warning, his eyes darting to the field beside the road. I inhaled, fighting the instinct to crouch defensively as the scent of two vampires reached me. Esme and Rosalie were beside us as soon as they realized what was happening, my wife on my left, and Rosalie in front of Edward. He merely rolled his eyes, moving her to his right with a hand on her shoulder, though his expression gave away no anger at her desire to protect us. As if cued by the movement, two bodies emerged from the sea of long grasses a good two hundred yards from the edge of the road, as though submerged like crocodiles.

The two male vampires didn't approach us, but kept a wary distance—if they'd had any hostile intentions, they were now merely curious, seeing that they were entirely outnumbered. One was young, short and dark, the other of comparable features to my own, though much older, physically. Their black eyes glittered in the fading light. The older, likely the sire, spoke first.

"You let them go." It was a statement. "You had them in your trap, and you let them go."

I nodded, noting that Edward had his hand firmly clenched against Rosalie's forearm as one of her feet slightly advanced, offensively. "Yes—my family feeds only from animals."

The older man cocked his head at my use of the word '_family_,' as though it had sparked a distant memory that was just out of his grasp. I recognized the expression, certain that I had felt it before.

"Look at their eyes!" the dark man exclaimed. "They're all a bunch of freaks."

Rosalie growled and hissed menacingly, and the two figures instinctively crouched, now half-hidden by the grass. Edward held her back with a subtle growl, so low that only those in our party could hear it. The two regarded Rosalie with differing expressions, one loathing and the other fearful, though both held a similar amount of desire and awe.

A few moments of tense silence rolled by, and once the men realized we meant them no harm, the superior partner began to walk away, stopping when the smaller man refused to move.

The sire growled, grabbing ahold of the younger man's arm. "Jared, let's go."

"_No!_" his friend snarled. "I want that one." He looked back toward Rosalie, and she immediately steeled. But the vagrant seemed unaware of her reaction, and I heard Esme gasp, and Rosalie suppress a snort as we all came to the same conclusion—

He wanted _Edward_.

"He is rather beautiful," the first man agreed, eying Edward appreciatively.

The young man being considered froze under their scrutiny, releasing a small sound of disgust at the turn of events. It was not uncommon for vampires to have mixed sexual preferences, and it appeared we had met a pair, or perhaps a _couple_, that was interested in a _ménage à trois_…with Edward.

Esme began to chuckle silently, realizing there was no harm in their delay, and I held in my own amusement as Edward shot us a chilling glare. The vampire, now known as _Jared_, moved forward quickly, seeming eager to approach his point of interest. "I can smell him…he's not mated yet."

Edward took a step backward, as though ready to run, but before anyone could react, Rosalie stepped forward, asserting, "I'm afraid he's not available." And in one movement, she had spun a stunned Edward by the shoulders and molded her mouth to his.

Though Esme and I were absolutely shocked beyond capacity for logical thought, the action seemed to convince Jared that he didn't have a chance, and an angry expression darkened his already sinister appearance before he took off after the motorists, now, perhaps, two minutes down the road. His sire remained for a second longer, looking suspiciously at the bussing couple before hissing in leave and darting after his partner.

As soon as the man was out of visual range, Edward and Rosalie flung themselves apart, Rosalie wiping her mouth with the sleeve of her shirt, and Edward spitting venomous gobs into the ditch. Esme buried her face into my chest to hide her laughter while I expressed mine without restraint. It was an interesting start to our new beginning, and I knew I would never forget this moment.

"Next time you feel like _helping_ me, Rosalie, you can forget it," Edward hissed. "Nothing could possibly be more revolting than _that_."

Rosalie merely scoffed, spitting once before replying, her tone heavily sarcastic. "Oh, and you think that was the most enjoyable experience of my existence? I'd rather kiss a tarantula."

"That's enough," I interrupted, already tired of the bickering. I delegated the task of purchasing the new fuel pump to Edward and Esme; and while they ran to Pittsburgh, Rosalie showed me how to remove the old one, despairing in the fact that she had to use her hands instead of tools.

Within an hour, the car was running, and we were on our way again, with a very self-satisfied Rosalie lecturing, from her podium in the backseat, about the various parts of a car, and their purposes…and complaining about the smell of the grease that was smudged beneath her fingernails.

I made a mental note to buy her a set of tools as soon as possible.

* * *

When we arrived in Kentucky several days later, we found the house already set up, thanks to Edward and Esme's efforts. It was far more spacious than anything in which I had ever lived, two stories high and nearly 3,500 of square footage. Edward also had his own room and bathroom in addition to a new room devoted completely to his musical pursuits. The room was central in the house, allowing the music to flow evenly to every room, and a new Blüthner grand piano had taken the place of his smaller upright in Rochester.

Rosalie nearly toppled Esme in a hug when she discovered her own piano, on which she could practice, sitting in her spacious bedroom, which had an adjoining bathroom with shower—a luxury of which she had been deprived due to our previous, modest accommodations.

I was curious as to what Esme had done with the great number of my books she had brought, as we had decided that I would not have a study or office here. I asked her about it as soon as Edward and Rosalie had begun settling in.

"I designed this house to bring us together," Esme simply stated in reply, leading me toward what I assumed was our room. The area in question was barely a room—there was a bed, though only big enough for us to fit together tightly. On every side were large windows, surrounded by various shelves, with a few comfortable-looking chairs set snugly in the corners. A door to the right led off to a bathroom, I imagined, and to the left was another, leading out to the backyard. Though the most disconcerting feature was that there was no door leading into the room—just the frame.

She looked at me, her eyes glittering in a teasing manner. "So, what do you think?"

"I think that it may not last through the night," I answered honestly, a little confused and slightly disappointed, though I tried to hide it. Though she laughed, I could tell she saw through my mask of false appeasement. She then took my hand, leading me to the left, and outside, continuing south, into the woods.

She continued speaking as we traveled, three miles, at the least. "Like I said, Carlisle—that house is to bring us together…as a family. But for _us_, as husband and wife, as lovers, as mates…I figured we would need something a little…_more_."

The trees cleared out slightly, into a large circle, surrounding a good-sized cabin. I smiled broadly, wondering at how she was able to know my mind, even before I did.

I lifted her effortlessly into my arms, as I had that first night as man and wife. She laughed lightly, pressing herself as close to me as she could. Pressing my lips hard to hers in a wordless act of thanks, I drew back, walking us up to the sturdy, oak structure.

As I opened the door, anxious to seal our bond of love anew, I couldn't help but laugh at her choice of design.

"Esme," I chuckled, leaning down to nip at her neck before breathing the words into her ear. "What is it with you and cabins?"

* * *

Two Christmases passed in the hills of Kentucky, and 1935 brought with it yet more change—Amelia Earhart became the first person to ever fly alone from Hawaii to California, while at the same time, airplanes were banned from flying above the White House; Prontosil, the first sulfonamide antibacterial drug, was discovered in Germany, while Adolf Hitler announced the rearmament of the country, and therefore his violation of the Versailles Treaty.

We spent a great deal of time abroad as soon as Rosalie found it easier to be around humans, traveling across the southeastern part of the U.S., exploring and experiencing things together. At the end of April, to celebrate her second year with us, she had asked to be taken to see a film in Lexington—_The Bride of Frankenstein_—which was a sequel to a film she had seen four years prior. She did immensely well for being in a crowded theatre for seventy-five minutes, and only remarked that it was rather disappointing for a horror film. Of course, compared to the things our kind could experience, any mortal attempt at terror would come off as abhorrently childish.

Edward had helped Esme build a garage for our car, in which Rosalie would spend hours dis- and re-assembling the Franklin. Once a week, I traveled to the nearest small towns, offering my services as a physician to the poorer residents who couldn't afford medical help. None ever queried as to why my car was never seen, for I never took it—most of the time it was in pieces, anyway; because it was merely a prop to keep up appearances, and since there were none to be kept up among my patients, I chose to forego it altogether.

Early May brought with it a blissful spring, and, inspired by the delightful weather, Esme began planting a magnificent walking garden in our backyard. Edward spent much of his time running or studying French, or, naturally, at his piano; and Rosalie enjoyed spending time with Esme, though it was more for the company than any activity. Her solitude became treasured, much as Edward felt for his, and she began to spend entire days hunting alone, once we felt she was trustworthy.

It was on one of these days that Edward and I chose to spend some time together, to meet and share our thoughts. He had found me as I was catching up on some new research, and I felt his loneliness as my own. For hours, we spoke about every conceivable topic; from outside, Esme's gentle humming to the radio's music was a peaceful backdrop to our conversation.

Eventually, we fell into an amicable silence as we, once again, became absorbed in our individual studies. I began to feel as though we were sitting in the bright sunlight, despite the dreary day outside, our quiet solidarity breathing joy into the heart of me like the warmth from our galaxy's star. I looked up from my reading to see Edward roll his eyes, though his familiar crooked grin tugged at the corner of his mouth as my thoughts met his.

Quite suddenly, his expression faded and a defensive snarl reverberated from his chest as his head whipped to the southerly-facing windows. His uttered, "She can't be serious," was little more than a whisper, but was more than enough to have me on high alert. Assuming he was speaking of Rosalie, I held my breath and waited for any physically discernable signs of her return, as the scope of Edward's enhanced perception stretched beyond that which the average vampire could sense.

I could faintly smell the blood as soon as Rosalie's soft footsteps came within my range of hearing. I couldn't recall ever having heard her move with such speed, nor with such measured care—though her feet were barely touching the ground with every step, each movement sounded deliberately placed, as if she were attempting to move as little as possible, even in her haste. Even without seeing, I could practically picture the grace with which she was moving, hardly a sound but the wind in her wake and the shuffle of brush beneath her feet meeting my ears.

More concerning were the sounds that floated above the almost silence of her approach—she wasn't breathing, but a distinctly male body _was_. His heart beat frantically, and his staccato, shallow breaths punctuated the rhythm unevenly; either in panic or shock, or a lethal combination of both; it was impossible to tell without visual confirmation.

The door swung wide, hitting the wall as Esme entered the room, standing before me as I stood, somewhat stunned; I was shocked to find myself unable to remember having heard her move from her project in the back yard, my senses acutely tuned to events beyond the boundaries of our yard and home.

"Carlisle, what's going on?" she asked, clearly afraid. As Esme's eyes met mine she seemed to read the answer, locking our hands and leaning into my chest, her forehead resting on my collarbone as she released a sorrowful sigh. "She was doing so well," she whispered against my shirt.

My heart sank at the thought that, likely, Rosalie had attacked someone, and, perhaps in the rush of shock and insecurity, was bringing the victim back with her. My mind began to spin with thousands of possibilities of what had happened, simultaneously in wonderment at her ability to stop mid-feed, being not yet two years into this existence, and in deep consideration at what would need to be done to cover up her mishap.

Edward looked at me, sneering. "This was no _accident_," he growled.

"Edward, what do you know?" I demanded. Edward leapt to his feet without reply, his eyes trained on the door and jaw locked in sheer fury.

Several things happened in the next two seconds: Rosalie's footsteps flew across the yard and up the steps, pausing as she—presumably—turned around mid-air, her back breaking through the front door as through water. Esme sucked in a quick breath and held it, moving away from my body to stand beside Edward, and he wrapped a reassuring arm around her shoulder. I could tell she feared the looming bloodlust, and was grateful to Edward for willingly supporting her.

Within a second, Rosalie was in the doorway—a man easily twice her size in her arms. He appeared to be in his late teens, or possibly early twenties, though it was difficult to gauge his approximate age from appearance alone. His build was like that of an ancient Roman Gladiator—around six and a half feet tall and well over two hundred pounds. His features were marred with long lacerations that covered the majority of his upper body and head, crisscrossed in some places. The skin across his chest had been torn through, muscle, bone, and organs exposed, and a flap of scalp that had been ripped to the bone dangled from the crown of his skull.

His lower body had sustained less damage, though not at all unscathed. His jeans—or rather, what was left of them—were shredded, large strips of fabric hanging from his knees, which were draped over Rosalie's left arm. The flesh, tendons, and fibula bone of his lower right leg had been entirely ripped through, save for his Achilles tendon and tibia. Blood was dripping from his one remaining boot and bare foot.

My mind reeled with the fact that this was not the work of a vampire—baffled by how it had escaped my notice, there was no trace of venom to be detected anywhere on his person. But beyond that, even for a newborn, the injuries were too random and illogical for a creature seeking to feed.

All my observation took place within the span of a tenth of a second, long enough for Rosalie to brush past me. The most interesting note was that his eyes were still open and concentrated on Rosalie's face; even as the rest of his body seemed entirely focused on keeping him alive, his eyes roamed about her face in wonderment, almost. Her eyes locked with the young man's, and she gently laid him upon the small couch in my office. Sitting down, she gingerly placed his head in her lap, her fingers softly combing through the dark, blood-soaked curls that framed his face; so light was the touch that she barely made contact with the hair. This was a side of Rosalie we had never seen.

"It was a bear," was all Rosalie said, nearly a whisper as she clearly wished to conserve the oxygen she held.

Esme was turned away from the sight even as Edward looked on, her hand tightly gripping his forearm as she fought to remain strong in the presence of such carnage. It was a miracle Rosalie had managed to bring him home, no matter how short or long the distance, and we would have time later to discuss the circumstances behind the situation in which we currently found ourselves; however, my newer instincts bade me do all I could to help this young man, and I had a Hippocratic duty to fulfill, even though I knew he would not recover.

I grabbed my bag off my desk, quickly moving to wrap as many of his wounds as I could, though the bandages in my possession were barely enough to cover his torso and head. As I worked swiftly over him for several moments, I took the opportunity to visually examine Rosalie—apart from a large tear in the front of her shirt and a wind-swept appearance, she appeared none the worse for the wear. My tacit patient hardly made a noise as I worked, appearing to notice nothing beside the woman above him. She smiled at him, and he seemed to attempt a similar gesture, though the expression was more of a grimace than a grin, slight dimples appearing at the corners of his mouth.

Rosalie's eyes met mine for the first time since her return home, a similarly initial speech issuing from her, concurrently. "I want you to save him—please," she whispered with concise breath.

"There's not much I can do for him, Rosalie," I replied, reaching for the morphine within my bag. There was no more I could do, apart from easing his suffering. "His injuries have already weakened him—"

"No," she corrected. "I want you to change him—_for me_; like you did with me."

I was pulling out the syringe as she spoke, and froze when her words met my comprehension.

She wanted me to…

_No_. The objection came immediately. I remembered, all too well, my own thoughts and motivations behind changing a young woman I found dying in the streets of Rochester—my own inner turmoil, all boiling down to one of several justifications: _someone for Edward_.

My son growled from my left. "You changed _her_ for _me_? Of all the idiotic—"

"Can we argue about this later?" Rosalie cut him off with a snarl, using up the last of her remaining air. A panicked look overtook her before she seemed to get an idea. She looked down to meet the dilated eyes of the man below; they were rimmed with a thin, dark blue line, the color made even brighter and clearer in contrast to the cuts, bruising, and swelling that surrounded it. Keeping their gazes locked, she sucked in a quick breath through her mouth before shutting it tightly.

I quickly resumed my previous actions, filling the syringe with morphine to the approximate administering dosage before injecting it into his less-mangled, left arm. He gasped at bit, though the pain of injection couldn't possibly be any more painful than the injuries from which he was already suffering. I kept a part of my mind cognizant of his breathing, as fatal respiratory suppression was a very likely result of the drug, though it would take far more time to take full effect than we had.

Swallowing thickly, Rosalie blinked several times in succession before speaking a soft plea, her eyes meeting nothing but the man's face. "I'll never ask anything of you again, if you would just give me this one thing. _Please_."

Her eyes swept up to mine in that instant, brows pulled up and together as only the deepest of entreaties could supply. Rosalie's darkened, nearly black eyes still held a shimmer of gold about the edges, miraculously, and shone with a checked emotion I had never seen in them before—

It was _want_. Not in shallow longing or petty desire, but true want—as though she was in dire need. The look shot through me like déjà vu, and I found myself seeing my own reflection in the expression—a dull reflection seen in a muddy pool as I once sought to destroy myself through starvation. So deprived was I of nourishment, that my very soul craved nothing more than mere sustenance.

As I sought to reconcile the past and present, Edward interjected. "You're not seriously considering this, are you, Carlisle?"

"Please." The plea was little more than a whispered prayer from Rosalie's lips, her eyes now closed as her head bowed over the slowly fading life before me. Little more than two minutes had passed, yet his end drew nearer with each almost insufficient breath he took.

For a being with a span of eternity, my most important decisions seemed to be demanding instant resolutions. Whatever humorous irony might have been found in that epiphany was lost in the gravity of the moment.

At least this time, I did not have to make the choice alone.

"Esme," I beckoned. She turned, but did not move closer, her darkened gaze meeting mine. "I can't do this without knowing you stand behind me."

"You aren't actually thinking about this, are you?" Edward ground out from beside me, and I could feel his gaze boring into the back of my head, as I had turned it to look at Esme.

My wife walked to me carefully, as though testing the proverbial water with each step, a dismal look on her face as she felt the weight of the predicament. Then, with just the briefest of looks to Rosalie, it seemed she could see what I had. A hiss from Edward told me she had made her decision, and, placing a steady hand on my face and looking deeply into my eyes, she clearly voiced it.

"This is right," she said, simply. Apart from the fact that she didn't have much breath with which to speak, there was little more she needed to say. She stood firmly behind me, literally and figuratively, her hands on my shoulders as she bent to place a tender kiss on my head.

However, turning to Edward, I found him irate. "You can't just put a man's life to a vote, Carlisle." He turned slightly to fully face Rosalie, and his eyes tightened into a dark glare. "This is selfish and wrong, Rosalie. You should have let him die."

Rosalie opened her mouth to reply, but seemed to think better of it; as she and Edward locked gazes, it became apparent that whatever she was saying to him was working. He seemed to deflate slightly, though, even as he finally met my patient gaze, he did not seem entirely convinced.

"I could make an executive decision, regardless of your wishes, Edward," I reasoned. The man's respiratory rate decreased suddenly, his breaths becoming shallower. I sped my short speech even further. "But we're not just a coven anymore—we're a _family_, and something that affects one of us will affect us all. I'm asking you, not only as your leader, but also as your father and friend: are you with us?"

Edward's gaze met mine with a finality that was almost palpable; a firm nod was his only answer as he turned to sit in the chair once again.

I faced Rosalie and the quickly-fading young man. His eyes were closing, though he seemed to be fighting it. She stroked his face gently, avoiding the majority of his lacerations. "Is there anything we can do to make him more comfortable?" she asked. "Anything we can do for the pain?"

"I've already administered a substantial amount of morphine," I replied. "I'm not sure if it will help at all, as it is not yet beginning to take effect, but we don't have enough time to find out."

Without any further words between us, I leaned forward. Rosalie tilted his head back slightly to expose his neck, the movement causing him to gasp and groan weakly, and she shushed him gently, promising it would be all right.

I might have imagined it, but as I sank my teeth into his neck—fighting the urge to swallow the initial influx of blood into my mouth—I swore I heard Rosalie whisper, "_Thank you._"

* * *

_A few notes on this chapter: _

_1. Bodies really do burn in such a way--I researched it, and can give you the link to an article if you're interested in that kind of shit._

_2. The Bride of Frankenstein was released April 22, 1935. And it's hilarious--I just watched it on YouTube. It's a sign of the times when that movie had to be re-shot because "The Bride" showed too much cleavage, but it was perfectly all right for "The Monster" to sit and smoke a cigar, laughing and saying, "Gooood! GooooOOOOOD!" **Snicker!**_

_3. If you're really into gore, you can find tons of pictures of bear attacks via Google image search. There were many I used as a reference for Emmett's injuries, so if you don't have a good enough imagination, go check them out!_

_4. And finally, a big thank you to everyone who has been reading, even if you haven't been checking in as reviewers (Thank you to the select few who have come out of the Fanfiction-stealth-mode and dropped me a line recently!). I have been comparing myself to other authors lately and feeling that I come up short (it always happens when one compares, right?), so your encouragement (and the exhausting efforts of my beta) are what pulled me through this chapter._

_My heart to you all, as yours' have gone out to mine._

_P.S--I'm dying to know: did anyone catch either the "Singing in the Rain" or the "Princess Bride" reference?_


	19. Strength

_I own neither _Twilight_ nor Carlisle. Though my loyalty to the Patriarch is starting to split…just began watching season one of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer," and am now changing panties like mad over the man-candy that is "Angel". But don't worry, Carlisle—you had my heart, first. Though I wouldn't mind giving out sloppy seconds—_**rawr**!

_To the Beta of the Year, and great friend extraordinaire, bananapancakes7…pick up Carlisle—I instructed him in a very important message…_**endless hugs**_. Your strength of spirit and wit of mind is an inspiration, and I find myself daily in awe of your brilliance._

_Hello, friends! I know I've already thanked you guys a million times for sticking in there with me and giving me such amazing reviews—*nudge, nudge, wink, wink*—but I really cannot stress enough how supportive you have all been. We're so, __**so**__ close to the end, and I am loathe to end it mainly because I will miss hearing from you all so much._

_Bask in the cruel irony that is the news headline of the day (this isn't fake), "Ice skating bear kills Russian circus hand." Sick 'em, Emmett._

_And with that dedication, on with the plot…  
_

_

* * *

_

"I'm here," Rosalie sang, softly. "I'm right here, dear."

She sounded much like Esme as she held the man as tightly as she could while he writhed in agony on the small sofa. The next few hours could possibly be the most painful of the three days for him, with the exception of the final moments before he would awaken as a newborn. He had extensive, severely traumatic injuries that would require massive repair, and I wasn't certain that the venom I gave him would be enough to heal _and_ to transform. I'd held on a full thirty seconds longer than I deemed necessary after the initial transfusion of venom. I could feel his strength flowing through his blood, even with as weak and hypovolemic as he was.

He screamed only for a few minutes, and then fell into a deathly, still silence while his heart continued to pound furiously, the sound echoing off the walls of the room. We all sat in quiet vigil for several moments—Rosalie with the man's head in her lap, I on the floor with Esme behind me, and Edward in the corner.

"Far be it from me to be irreverent, but didn't someone say something about _arguing about this later_?" my son snidely commented from the corner. "I'd like to take this opportunity to begin, while he's still entirely unaware of our conversation."

Rosalie quickly and quietly hissed a warning. "Could you think about someone _besides _yourself for just ten minutes?"

"I could say the same for you. Wanting someone for your own is one thing, but actually changing that person without their consent—that's beyond the pale."

"It's hardly without his consent, Edward," Rosalie replied, almost calmly. "I showed you the way he looked at me…he'll be happy with me."

Edward scoffed. "Yes, he looked at you as a five-year-old would at his mother. How _endearing_. For all you know he was hallucinating and actually thought you _were_ his parent—it's self-serving and ludicrous to damn another to this life when you don't even know if he'll like you."

"That's enough, both of you," I interrupted, standing in resolution. "I suggest we continue this—_calmly and maturely_—once we make the young man as comfortable as possible." The couch on which he was laid was hardly big enough to contain his large frame—his legs dangled over the opposing arm rest, and the cushion was just wide enough to accommodate his pelvic girth.

Esme ran upstairs to prepare the bed in Rosalie's room while I assisted the solemn young woman with transporting the young man as gently as possible. We were swift but smooth in our actions, yet as we carried him up the stairs, something made Rosalie pause. With a gasp, she immediately cradled his upper body with one arm, bringing one hand to his bloodied and grimy face, gently tracing, with her index finger, two clean lines that trailed from his eyes down the sides of his face and neck.

"He's crying," she whispered in almost amazement, examining the feel of the saline substance on her fingers, and bringing a hand up, possibly to lick it off, before thinking better of it and continuing with her task.

By the time we had reached Rosalie's room, Esme had already spread several layers of towels across the bed. "It'd be better to burn them than Rosalie's blankets," she stated. As we laid him in what we hoped was a comfortable position, it was clear we were going to need a large space for him in our home—laid on his back, normally, he took up nearly the entire space of Rosalie's spacious, double bed.

Small moans began to emit from the back of his throat as his tears increased, evaporating as they rolled down his heated, battered cheeks. Rosalie began to cry with him, though she fought to remain silent.

"He _will_ love me, Edward," she avowed, her voice cracking over a sob. "He just _has_ to. And even if he doesn't from the beginning, it's like Esme said—he'll just need a little convincing."

Edward appeared in the room, glowering at the two huddled on the bed as I allowed them their opportunity to hash out this feud without interference; instead, I helped Esme, who had just entered with some wet cloths. We began to clean the stranger's wounds, to help expedite the healing process, and Edward watched us cynically. "I think you're taking her remark a bit out of context, Rosalie. You cannot force someone to do something they don't want to."

I felt his heated glare fix on me instantly as he continued without pause. "You let her guilt you into everything, Carlisle. She bats her golden, puppy dog eyes and you give in. And this time, someone else is going to pay the price for her self-centeredness."

Though I began to defend my choice, it was Esme, this time, who answered him. "I'm surprised you feel that way, Edward, being the expert manipulator that you are. You simply throw a tantrum every time you don't get your way, and expect us all to run and pacify you. Well, perhaps it was selfish of Rosalie, but you might say the same of Carlisle where I am concerned—and look how that turned out. Now, you've given your silent consent in this matter, and now you may sit back and enjoy a taste of your own medicine."

That seemed to silence him for a few moments, and he sobered, but remained gloomy. "This was a bad idea, Carlisle. Remember the last time you changed someone for the express purpose of them being created for another?"

Though the guilt threatened to spread through me, I easily saw through his method, and countered before he had time to see it in my mind. "That was under entirely different circumstances, Edward—it was erroneous, on my part, to assume you would come to care for someone you had not chosen yourself, and for that I apologize. But Rosalie has brought this man to us herself, not knowing if she could bite him without causing his immediate death. His life is in her charge, now—not mine, and _certainly_ not yours."

"And furthermore, Edward," Rosalie immediately began, as though she was owning everything I had said in addition to whatever she was about to assert. "Maybe if you hadn't acted so horrible towards me, I wouldn't have felt any need to find someone else to be my companion. I really should be thanking you for helping me find him."

"How _dare _you," Edward hissed. "How _dare you_ try to place the blame on me? I'll have none of it!"

And with that he began to storm out of the room, but not before turning once more with a chilling, blackened gaze to growl, "How anyone could ever love a wretched thing like you is beyond me."

And with that, he disappeared into his study, leaving the three of us aghast in his wake.

* * *

Throughout the next several days, Rosalie refused to leave the young man's side as she sat perched on the side of the bed, her lithe hand hidden inside his superior one. Despite our pleas for her to hunt, she remarked only, "I'll hunt as soon as he can." Her eyes were black as night, and when asked about her thirst, she stated, simply, that it couldn't be any worse than what he was going through—and while it was an entirely acceptable answer, Esme and I found ourselves baffled by her sudden change of attitude. Never before had we seen a side of Rosalie that was so entirely…_gentle_. All traces of haughtiness and insecurity had vanished from her face, and every move she made was full of a feminine grace that she had never seemed inclined to express in the past year with us.

She told us the story of how she had caught his scent while hunting in the northern woods of Tennessee. Finding him beneath a bear that was already in the process of tearing him to ribbons, she fed from the vicious animal before considering what she ought to do with the dying victim. She explained in great detail how the anger and malice of the bear had reminded her of the men who had attacked her in cold-blood just over a year earlier, and she felt the young man's pain as her own.

With great attention to detail, she described how there was hardly a thought to her bloodlust as she gazed down into his mauled and agonized visage—and that Edward's comment hadn't been too far off. He had, indeed reminded her of a young child of her friend's in Rochester; a little dark, curly-haired boy with the sweetest disposition that she had doted upon, and one of which she had hoped to have for her own one day.

Though, she noted, this young man was anything _but_ small.

Whereas the unknown, soon-to-be newborn vampire had seemed unusually large for his apparent age from the start, he continued to grow in size, and Esme was forced to sew new clothing for him with each successive day of his change. By the beginning of the third day, when she feared she had exhausted her fabric supply, his growth finally reached a plateau, his hands and feet now dangling off the bed—he had gained at least four inches in height, and easily one hundred pounds in mass.

Soon after, Rosalie began to complain of his grip becoming almost painful around her hand, and it took much of the strength I physically possessed to pry his fingers open wide enough that she might safely remove her hand. It was clear he was going to be an impressive figure, and I began to immediately worry for the safety of my family, for he would be nearly impossible to control should he act as the normal newborn.

As though to prove my point, the loss of Rosalie's hand seemed to distress the young man so greatly that he began to moan again, moving about on the bed so violently that I feared he might break it. But the mere touch of Rosalie's hand to his face—now entirely healed and cleaned—restored his peace, as much as he could obtain in his physical anguish, and he stilled. With an encouraged grin, Rosalie lay down beside him and wrapped her arms about his giant form, though her arms barely reached the full width across his massive torso, holding him as his time drew closer.

"You're not alone," she whispered. "You won't ever have to feel alone."

* * *

"This doesn't look anything like heaven..."

Esme and Rosalie stood behind Edward and I in the room, and the two of us stood at an apprehensive distance from the mysterious newborn as he sat up in bed, his head turning with blurred speed as he took in his surroundings. His deep bass, heavy with a southern drawl, reverberated around the room, and he actually seemed _amused _when the echoes of his words returned to him almost instantly.

"This still _looks_ a lot like life, but I suppose hell might look a lot like—woah." His eyes had landed on Rosalie after surveying the other three of us casually, and he grinned widely, dimples standing out on his otherwise masculine features. "Nope. Definitely not hell."

I looked quickly to Edward, but he seemed strangely relaxed compared to his experience with both Esme and Rosalie. Edward's eyes remained fixed on the newcomer as he leapt from the bed, swaying slightly as his senses were a bit delayed in following his movement. He seemed unable to take his eyes off of Rosalie, and their smiles mirrored each others' as he moved his head to look at her around Edward.

Stepping forward, I extended my hand cautiously, though I saw no reason to be concerned. He wasn't as defensive as Edward had been, nor as _offensive_ as Rosalie, and he certainly wasn't passive like Esme, upon her awakening.

"My name is Carlisle Cullen, and this is my family. And you are?"

He looked between my hand and face speculatively, and then, as though he was remembering a distant memory, outstretched his own hand and grasped mine—and I instantly knew of what Rosalie had been complaining. His grasp was nearly crushing, and I flinched at the urge to hiss from the sensation. The last thing we needed at the moment was an excuse for him to tap into his defensive instincts and become a threat.

He shook my hand almost violently, and I felt my entire upper body lurch forward with the action. "Emmett McCarty, of Gatlinburg, Tennessee," he announced, and then quickly released my hand, standing to his full height of nearly six and a half feet. "And she is?" He looked to Rosalie.

I clenched and unclenched my hand as the discomfort faded, and Esme quickly raced to my side. As she inspected my hand for any sign of injury and I assured her I was fine, Emmett looked at us in confusion.

I smiled warmly at him, wrapping an arm about the still-concerned woman as I introduced everyone. "This is my wife, Esme. Behind us is my son, Edward; and the young woman about whom you are inquiring—"

"I'm Rosalie Hale, _Emmett,_" she interjected, stepping forward and in front of Edward. He made no move to stop her, looking entirely comfortable with the situation, and even perhaps a bit surprised as he stood passively, a mere observer with a relaxed expression. I was incredibly curious as to what he had been hearing in this Emmett's mind that had caused him to seem so inert. We had called him to the room in the final moments of the transformation, as a precaution, and he had seemed entirely disinterested from the moment of his arrival.

Edward looked at me as I began to mentally entreat his opinion, and he answered only with a shrug and slightly widened eyes, as if to convey, "_There's nothing to say._"

"That's a very fitting name..._Rosalie_," Emmett tried the name out before offering her a rather sly wink, to which she looked insecurely at Esme and me. If he noticed her hesitance, he didn't mention it. "So, _Rosalie_," he stretched out the syllables. "Care to explain what's going on?"

Rosalie looked at me in supplication, and I immediately launched into the story of our family, beginning with the explanation of what we were, and flowing seamlessly into who we had become to each other. From there, Rosalie picked up with her own perspective on finding him in the woods, and that she had brought him home to ask me to change him. Throughout the two minutes it took for us to explain, Emmett's smile barely faded. He appeared pensive, though never serious, and his grin widened further—if possible—by the time Rosalie's story had drawn to a close.

"I don't believe this," Edward commented from his post, leaning against the wall. "You're actually _all right_ with this?"

"Damn straight," Emmett hollered. "I always knew all those vampire stories in the novels and movies were real—now I have _proof!_ Well, of course you guys have a whole lot of rules that I've never heard of. Wait 'til I tell my brothers…"

"No, Emmett," I replied, feeling the sadness creep into my tone. He still didn't understand the full meaning of what he had become. "You can never see your family again—that is, if you wish for them to remain alive. No one can know of our secret; and beyond that, if you were to see them now, being a newborn, you would kill them all."

His smile disappeared, and for the first time since his awakening, all wonder and joviality faded from his boyish face. "You mean…oh." His shoulders drooped and his gaze fell to the floor, and he let himself fall back to sit on the bed. However, not realizing his newfound strength, he smashed straight through the bed.

Raising his head in shock, he chuckled. "Oops," he drawled.

Rosalie moved quickly to help him up, though she seemed to think better of it once she had stretched out her hand, withdrawing it when she remembered how strong his grasp had been. He looked saddened for a moment, before she explained. "Well you're much stronger now, Emmett; but you're also immensely strong, even for one of us...your grip hurt me a bit, earlier…before you woke up."

The impish grin returned as he stood and surveyed the damage. "Sorry…guess I'll just need to get used to being the best—always was, you know." There was the wink again, though the sadness still remained behind his glowing, carmine eyes.

"Um," Rosalie fidgeted nervously, "Carlisle, shouldn't we take him hunting?"

"_Hunting?"_ the young man exclaimed, breaking his gaze from memorizing the strands of Rosalie's hair to meet mine. "I'm _great_ at hunting! What's the best game around these parts? And hey, where are we, anyway?"

I chuckled at his sudden enthusiasm, and felt the heaviness lift from the atmosphere. "We live about fifty miles northwest of Kingsport, Tennessee, as the bird flies. It's a fairly secluded area, away from highly populated areas of humans."

Emmett nodded in understanding, and Rosalie smiled—she actually appeared excited, and for the countless time since Emmett's arrival, I was startled by the sudden softening of her personality. "So, should we go?"

As we started walking outside, Emmett treaded carefully across the floor, in obvious trepidation of stepping too forcefully, and Esme was gently reassuring him it was all right. Edward ran ahead to scout out any possible trouble, in the form of humans that were too near, and Emmett checked his stride to match Rosalie's as the four of us ran in a companionable silence into the woods.

With each new step and leap, Emmett quickly learned how to adjust to his new strength. After crushing at least five deer, he finally figured out the force necessary to pounce upon and hold his prey while feeding. Moving on from there, Edward helped teach him how to move with stealth, rather than just barreling full-bore toward his intended meal. Though he didn't much see the point, Emmett was an excellent student, and his athletic body served him well in his pursuits.

Once his thirst was sated, for the moment, he took to lifting large ash and oak trees from their roots and seeing how far he could throw them—though Edward seemed to be his preferred target. He obviously thought this impressed Rosalie a great deal, and perhaps it did; however, we immediately became aware of the excessively loud noise this activity produced, even from several miles away. Edward suggested, very wisely, that Emmett wait until a thunderstorm occurred if he ever wished to apply himself in such a manner, should anyone hear the deafening sounds and want to investigate.

"Why don't you work on ways to be _gentle_, Emmett?" Esme proposed. I could see the wheels turning in his head, and instantly, he began looking around, sniffing the air purposefully and taking off into the woods.

"Edward?" I asked, worried, poised to follow the newborn.

He held up a hand. "It's all right."

And he was correct. Emmett returned immediately to stand before Rosalie, a single wild rose held loosely in his hand. The flower offered to her with a slight bow, Rosalie looked at us all bashfully before taking it with a grateful smile. They walked home just slightly ahead of us, sneaking glances and talking easily, Emmett asking more questions about Rosalie's past—we noted that Rosalie very tactfully skipped over the circumstances surrounding her change.

We had just entered the yard to our home when I heard Emmett whisper.

"Hey, Rosalie?"

"They can still hear us," she replied matter-of-factly. "But what is it?"

I looked over my shoulder quickly, noting that Emmett seemed almost self-conscious as he spoke, looking at her out of the corner of his eyes rather than looking straight at her.

"I was just wondering…I mean—you meant what you said, right? That you wanted me?"

Rosalie hesitated, shooting me an irritated look when she noticed that I was looking. With a quiet laugh, I brought my attention back to the woods in front of us while Esme laced her fingers in mine, beaming up at me in her happiness.

"Of course I meant it," Rosalie finally answered after a brief, pensive pause. I heard Emmett's heavy footsteps pause behind us, and Esme and I turned at almost the same time Rosalie did. "What is it?" she asked, almost pleadingly.

I don't think I had ever seen anyone as _ecstatic_ as Emmett was in that moment. His face was lit from within, deep red eyes gleaming with joy as he rushed forward a few steps, carefully sweeping Rosalie into his arms and bending them slightly as he closed his lips over hers. I had never seen such grace in movement from such a large personage, and I found the spectacle to be one the most beautiful displays of affection to which I had been privy. Regardless, I gripped Esme's hand tighter as I prepared for the wrath of Rosalie, for there was only a very small chance that she would not be enraged by the unexpected act.

As soon as it had begun, it was over, and Emmett straightened them both and released her, though she didn't move from his embrace at first. She was facing us, and her eyes were wide in shock as she stared back at him. She still clutched the rose he had given her in one hand, and the other was suspended midair, frozen, as was her entire form.

And then she was gone. A second later, the door to her room slammed from within the house, and Emmett turned to face us with a pleased grin.

"Well, that was interesting," he laughed.

* * *

"What's happening to him, Carlisle?"

These words were not the five I had been expecting to hear from my wife's lips only minutes after we had made love; but even with how impassioned she had been during our joining, I could tell something was wrong. Her mind did not compartmentalize as mine did, and if something in one part of her mind was hurting her, every inch of her being was in agony. Even there, in the sanctuary of our own cabin, wrapped up tightly in my arms, she was still disconsolate.

She was speaking of Edward, of course. Just after Rosalie had absconded into the house after Emmett's ardent embrace, we realized that our son was also nowhere to be found. He had been behind us only moments before, but had since vanished. It wasn't until later that day that he reappeared, and his mood was drastically changed. He had seemed so content in the presence of Emmett—more extraverted than normal, even. But the sullen, brooding Edward had returned at that moment, and was constant company in our home every moment since.

Of course I couldn't blame Esme for worrying—it was frightfully redolent of the manner in which our firstborn, so to speak, had been directly before his launch into a life of retributive murder.

"I don't know what to tell you, Love," I sighed, running my fingers through her hair as she snuggled further into my embrace, attempting to get as close as possible. "He doesn't talk to me as he once did—it's as though we've gone three steps backwards, to where we were when you first entered our lives."

She let out a sound of frustration. "And speaking of regressing, why is Rosalie being so cold toward Emmett? It's not as though she's rejecting his attentions, nor does she seem to be afraid of him. She's assured me she's not concerned about him hurting her physically, but she won't dig any deeper than that. It makes one wonder…"

I thought back to the numerous occasions over the past week in which I had observed Rosalie's interactions with Emmett. While she had never been cold toward him—on the contrary, as a matter of fact—she certainly _was_ resisting any sort of progression in their relationship, emotional or otherwise.

"Carlisle…" Esme's soft voice brought me from my thoughts.

"Hmm?"

"I don't suppose…there isn't any possibility that…"

I slid away from her slightly so I could look into her face. She was furiously gnawing on her lip, her eyes shifting from left to right as she deciphered the invisible hieroglyphics of her thoughts. I waited patiently, knowing she would, likely, have hushed me even if I had offered a soft word of encouragement.

And as usual, her intriguing mind produced an idea that I had never before considered. "Do you think they were changed too young?"

"That's an interesting theory," I responded, though my mind was already ready to refute it. "But before I give you mine, perhaps you should tell me why you think that."

She closed the space I had put between us by pulling me back against her body and locking me in place with her arms. "They just seem so disinclined to form intimate attachments. I was hopeful with Rosalie, but she's just so reluctant to share anything of value about herself with Emmett…they can't possibly continue without knowing the most important things about each other."

I hushed her frantic rambling gently, hoping I wouldn't warrant any general irritation from her with what I was about to say. "You assume much, Esme. If by 'anything of value' you are speaking of Rosalie's history with Royce and her attack, then I think you need to give them both a little more time. Rome wasn't built in a day, and to Rosalie, that subject is something incredibly…sacred, almost. We've all gone through it together, just the four of us—maybe she just needs a little more time with all _five _of us, now, before she'll be able to let Emmett in."

"He's frustrated," she protested. "He's confused whenever she suddenly pulls away and locks herself in her room, and if she doesn't tell him something soon…"

"Maybe this is her version of hard-to-get?" I offered, humorously.

She pulled back long enough to give me a glare. "You're too soft with her, Carlisle. Someone needs to light a fire underneath her and break down that wall she's built between them."

Her accusation stung, but I fought the feeling in order to say what I knew Esme needed to hear—and though this was generally _her _territory, I knew it was unfair of me to withhold something I deeply felt she had to know. "Maybe I am too soft, Love—but I fail to see how you meddling in every step of the way is going to help them grow." She pulled away from me and turned her back, and I knew she was hurt.

I reached forward and brushed her hair over her shoulder to chance a peek at her face, but she shrugged away from my hand. I needed to find a way to fix this. I couldn't stand to see my Heart hurting. There was no other course of action. So, hoping to soften the blow at least, I continued.

"If anyone else had told you how to open my heart to you, Esme—would you have listened? Or would you have known beyond a shadow of a doubt that you instinctually knew what to do?"

Silence, and then a whispered, "_I knew—I always knew._"

She turned to me with a sorrowful gaze, and crawled back into my arms, melding her lips to mine as she straddled me.

"Consider this my knock," came Rosalie's voice from about a half-mile away.

We parted with a shared groan of defeat, and we had only just fully clothed before Rosalie actually _did _knock on the door. Leaning back against the headboard, Esme cuddled up against my side, squeezing my hand.

"I'll just listen, I promise," she whispered in my ear.

Rosalie closed the door and walked over to stand at the foot of the bed. "I think you might want to know that I just saw Emmett—he apparently overheard what you were saying about Edward and has a few…imaginative ideas of '_how to bring him out of his shell_,'" she quoted. "I'm not sure what that entails, but I can almost assure you Edward won't be happy about it."

"That sounds interesting," I chuckled, imagining the destruction that was likely to follow any such attempts from as physical a being as Emmett. He had known from his second day in our company of Edward's ability, and was having more fun with it by the minute. "But what brings _you_ here, Rosalie?"

"I wanted to speak with you about Emmett—with _both_ of you."

Esme looked at me hopefully, though I was wary of the nervous edge in our daughter's voice. This discussion could only go one of two ways, and I knew for which Esme was optimistic.

"Go ahead, dear," Esme said.

Rosalie shifted her weight until it was evenly balanced on both feet, and she straightened her shoulders. We were obviously about to receive a prepared speech.

"I suppose I should start by confessing that I, too, overheard everything you said about me."

"_Overheard_?" I challenged.

An inescapably guilty expression spread across her features. "All right, I was eavesdropping. Both Emmett and I were just out for a walk and he happened to catch you talking about Edward. His hearing is incredible—far better than anyone else's, as far as I can tell...and I'm getting off the subject.

"Well, he left once you started talking about me—I think he knew I wouldn't want him hearing something about me from someone else. But I heard everything you said, and I want you to know that I'm not incapable of loving Emmett—because I already do." She paused, clearly gearing up for some great revelation.

"Not _incapable_," she repeated. "Just _afraid_."

Esme was out of my arms and embracing Rosalie instantly, pulling her down to sit on the edge of the bed. I couldn't help but feel as though I had just been, essentially, kicked out of the conversation; that is, until Rosalie turned so she could face both of us.

"Is it too difficult for you to tell him about Royce?" Esme asked.

"Well, yes and no. I'm not afraid of the actual _telling_—"

Esme interrupted. "You think he won't love you once he knows, isn't that it?"

I cleared my throat intentionally, giving my wife a pointed look and scratching at my ear in demonstration. Rosalie clearly already knew what she needed to say—she wasn't here because we needed to hear it, but because she needed to tell us.

Esme groaned. "Sorry, Rosalie. What's the matter?"

She twirled her blonde hair between her fingers. "I just don't know how I'll be able to deal with it, knowing that when he knows, he'll love me anyway. It's all happened so quickly—we've already gotten to know so much about each other, and though he hasn't made a formal declaration, I know he loves me.

"And it isn't as though I feel undeserving, because I know there are few people in this world who deserve true love as much as I." I reflexively blinked at her brash pride, but made no comment. "I do love him, though I haven't told him, either, and have from the start; but it's almost as though I wish the knowledge of my past _will_ change his feelings, because I just…don't know how to let him love me." Rosalie's head fell helplessly, and she raised her eyes to her mother.

For once, Esme seemed to be entirely out of advice. She vacillated between answers before apparently giving up, and both women simultaneously turned their appeals to me. I was slightly surprised that they were actually asking for _my _advice where relationships were concerned—me, the emotionally dead for over two centuries before my other half came to bring me to life. I was hardly qualified to be any sort of counselor where the heart was concerned—I was practically a tyro in the matters of love, myself.

Personally, Esme had managed to find a way to understand me on an unprecedented level; and if I were to be entirely honest, I had unconsciously fought with everything in my being to keep Esme from loving me. I decided to offer what advice I could, though I doubted it would be of much help, in the end.

"Then, I suggest you let Emmett know. As you love each other, I have a sneaking suspicion that he is the only one who holds the solution."

Quite unexpectedly, Rosalie launched herself across the bed to embrace me, pulling back only to plant a firm kiss on my cheek before standing to do likewise to Esme. She raced out the door without another word, though with a significantly more confident air.

As Esme crawled back up the bed toward me, unbuttoning her blouse as she approached, her face reflected surprise, but an unmistakable amount of respect. I couldn't help but feel a glow of pride that my own struggles had been of benefit to our beloved Rosalie.

Perhaps, as an advisor, I was not proving to be so entirely unqualified.

"I told him to stop, Esme—the barge just wouldn't listen."

Edward's words did nothing to soften the blow as Esme looked distraughtly about the living room. We had just returned from hunting to find a rather shamefaced Emmett sulking on the porch, looking as though he was waiting for the axe to fall—or perhaps the _match_, in our case. Beside him was a very pleased-looking Rosalie, who actually gave us a genuine smile as we approached. Neither said a word, and upon entering the house, nothing seemed amiss; that is, until we approached the doorway to the living room.

There was a large piece of the frame missing that appeared to be half the width of Edward's form, and the rest of the room was hardly in better condition. The couch was in several pieces, which were strewn about from the epicenter of whatever force had broken it—as though a large weight had been dropped upon it from a great height. _Emmett_. The small table that had been in front of it was also splintered, and what appeared to be a chessboard and its pieces were amidst the wreckage. The radio was across the room, slightly damaged, but it appeared to still be in a remarkably unscathed condition.

"Emmett! Edward!" Esme ordered, her voice raised to an almost painfully loud volume. I inwardly cringed at the tone, though it was not I who was about to be on the receiving end of it—there was nothing more instinctually terrifying as a woman on the rampage, and the edge in the very syllables she spoke was inciting the strangest feelings of guilt within me. Perhaps it was the same way with every male…a developed self-preservation instinct, of sorts.

The two summoned responded immediately. Edward remained standing passively in the hallway, while Emmett shuffled in from the front porch to stand slightly behind him, and Rosalie leaned against the outside door, looking in. I turned to Esme, who seemed at a loss for words as she looked between the two.

I spoke for her, crossing my arms. "Care to explain what happened?"

Edward began, but Emmett interrupted immediately, his words coming so quickly they quite nearly overlapped each other. "Rose and Edward were playing chess, and he had her beat almost immediately—and she accused him of cheating, and he wouldn't admit to it, so of course I had to challenge him. And it's not my fault, really, because he was cheating with me, too—if he'd've just let me pin him, none of that would've happened…but he kept moving so fast, I couldn't grab him…and he was smiling, so he definitely didn't hate the game…"

I saw Rosalie's lips part in a wide grin as Emmett continued his tale, and it didn't even fade when she met my inquisitive look. It seemed she was enjoying the incident, as it had obviously occurred in an attempt to gain her favor. Edward immediately denied culpability in the matter as Esme turned back to face the destruction, her face now full of frustration and disbelief.

Edward seemed genuinely upset by her reaction, and he managed a soft, "I really am sorry, Esme."

"It's all right, Edward, I'm not angry with you," she sighed. Her reassurance did nothing to lighten the darkened expression that had claimed my son's features, however, and he brusquely turned and pushed past Rosalie, and off towards the mountains. My feet ached to follow him, but I knew he would need some time to organize his own thoughts apart from ours before I could have the opportunity to hear them myself.

Or did he need me, now? It was no longer as clear as it had once been to know him, and my heart ached at the distance that had grown between us since the addition of Emmett to our family. Before I could further hash out the dilemma, the newborn spoke.

"And…what about me?" he asked, his eyes downcast.

"No, I'm not angry, per se," Esme sighed in exasperation. "But, really Emmett, though I appreciate your attempts at…bringing Edward out of his shell, I would also appreciate it if you would choose a more fitting location for your pursuits—like the outdoors, away from my hard work."

Emmett looked sheepish, but not altogether remorseful. "I'm sorry, Esme. I would've had him, but the mind-reader's like a greased pig!"

Esme began to retort, but I cut her off, able to see why she was so upset over a few broken pieces of furniture—after all, it wasn't as though we didn't possess the means to replace them.

"It's all right, Love—we'll just have to get a new couch." I cooed suggestively and secretly, easily lapsing into my once-native British dialect as I wrapped my arms around her middle. "Apart from that, I see no harm done." My words had the effect I'd intended—a small smile lit her face beyond her control, and I felt the muscles in her stomach tighten in a reflexive reaction to my inflection. Esme absolutely loved it when I became her "English gentleman," and though this was the first time I had done it in the company of others, it still invoked the same response in her body.

Suddenly, Esme began to chuckle. "Rosalie…" Her tone was stern, but not without reflecting the light humor that illuminated her countenance.

As I looked to the subject of her commentary, I noticed that Rosalie's eyes were widened, owning a slightly glazed look, and her lips were parted as her mouth was frozen partially agape—and she was staring right at me.

Emmett began quickly looking between the two of us, as confused as I about what was happening. However, it seemed that he and I came to the same conclusion almost instantly, and I joined in Esme's laughter when a playful grin overtook Emmett's face.

"I have _got _to try that." He waved his hand before Rosalie's eyes several times, startling her from whatever reverie she had been entertaining before leaning in beside her ear. "So, Lady Rose, a British gent is what you wish?" he joked, his voice thick with a surprisingly convincing reproduction of my own London lilt.

The young woman swayed slightly on her feet, but she seemed to catch herself this time, whipping around to face him and fixing him with a warning glare. "That's not funny."

"Aw, come on Rosalie—I wasn't trying to make fun of you."

Esme interjected, stepping up to Emmett's defense. "No one's ridiculing you for anything, dear—you must learn to see the humor in the situation."

"Absolutely," Emmett agreed. "And besides…now I know how to incapitate you."

"I think you mean _incapacitate_," Rosalie corrected with an irritated roll of her eyes. The gesture was very reminiscent of Edward's attitude, and I found myself saddened at the conscious reminder of his absence. His increased physical distance was only a tangible manifestation of his late mental and emotional detachment—and I wasn't sure how to bring him back.

Emmett closed the short distance between himself and Rosalie, taking her hand and dramatically dropping down on one knee. "Come, darling, don't be cold," he crooned in an accent fit for the King of England. "Shall we show these two old goats how they play cards in the New World?"

Rosalie fought a smile, but I could tell she was quickly losing. Esme and I had long since given into Emmett's incomparable charm and talent for knowing exactly what Rosalie needed, and I decided to join in his jest. I forced my expression into a theatrical mask of anger, and spun Esme behind me.

"How dare you, sir," I challenged, "to call the Lady Esme an old goat, and so offend her honor? 'Tis a coward's errand, not that of a gentleman at all, and I shall not have it. She must be avenged!"

Both Esme and Rosalie were in such fits of laughter, I doubted they were listening to us anymore; but regardless, I couldn't remember the last time I had seen Rosalie so blissful—I never wanted it to end.

Emmett caught on quickly, leaping to his feet and facing me, drawing an imaginary sword from his left hip. "I see—so it is a fight to the death! I accept—in the name of the fair Lady Rose," he winked behind him. "Choose your weapon."

"Euchre," I offered with a straight face.

Emmett's expression voiced his inner confusion. "Bless you?" Rosalie was giggling hysterically.

"No, no," I explained. "It's a card game—plain tricks, fixed partners. It's not too difficult to learn. Though if you'd rather not challenge me…"

"_I accept!_" Emmett boomed with a raised fist.

* * *

Once Esme and I had beaten Emmett and Rosalie quite soundly, I found myself unable to remain focused on the three in my company. The ache in my chest became unbearable, and I needed to find Edward—I now knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that he needed me. As we all chatted amicably while cleaning up the rubble in the room, Esme could sense where my thoughts had turned, and with a gentle squeeze of my hand, she whispered, "_Go_."

I could hear her explaining to the others as I raced, baffled as I followed Edward's scent—it doubled back and around, crossing over itself and diverging, as though he had been drawing some abstract image with his trails…or he was trying to thwart any attempts to follow him. Nearly an hour had passed before I had deciphered his tactics, and I found myself travelling over fifty miles into the vast forest.

I found him sitting high in a tree, overlooking a vast valley. As I climbed quickly, I wondered at his preference for looking at such landscapes, as I often found him in such locations when he was upset.

"Maybe I like being able to see an end to something," he remarked, darkly. I leapt onto the branch above before swinging down to sit beside him, as he was leaning against the trunk. The thick limb groaned in protest, but did not threaten to break.

"There's not really a stopping point to that horizon, Edward. Though, if you go looking for it, you may find newer horizons—novel sunrises and sunsets the likes of which you have never dreamed."

"Yes—all on my own."

I began to respond, but his comment was almost like a slap in the face. It was both an answer and an accusation, in one. The snide edge to his voice betrayed his proverbial finger-point at me, as though the addition of Emmett to our family had been an intentional act on my part to make him the fifth wheel. And on that same train of thought was his typical, overly-dramatic admission of bitterness toward the situation in which he found himself. The thought garnered a rather steely glare from him, but I hardly could be expected to feel guilty for consciously thinking something that he already knew about himself.

"Once again, you feel that another new member of the family has stolen something from you?"

He didn't reply immediately, though I could almost feel the air around us grow colder with his mood. I wrapped an arm about his shoulders even as he crossed his arms—a gesture of emotional closure, as Esme put it—and drew him as close to me as I could. Even if he was resisting my love, mentally and emotionally, he couldn't escape my substantial expression. Esme had speculated that perhaps he was afraid of losing us; that we would be paired off and so lost in our admiration of each other that he would fade to the background.

And perhaps that would be true for Rosalie and Emmett, as it sometimes seemed the two entirely forgot that anyone else was in the room when locked in each others' gaze. However, the love that I possessed for Esme was far different than that which had first claimed my heart when Edward joined my company. He was the first love of my un-beating heart, though not in a romantic sense, and that was something set in stone, and entirely unchangeable. I would never tire of Esme's company, but her absence evoked a longing that was more bearable than Edward's distance.

All my thoughts swirled—images, memories, senses and emotions melding inseparably with what I so desperately wished to convey to him in an audible sense.

He shook his head with a shrug. "I understand, I think. Of all the minds I've encountered, yours is generally the most organized—most people think as you do at the moment, using a combination of processes."

I chuckled. "How do they stand it? It's so illogical."

"You've had almost three centuries to compartmentalize and figure out a system of thought that is the most efficient for your own purposes. Everyone's mind has a signature that is almost as original as a fingerprint.

"Emmett's, for instance, is brilliantly simplified. He can pick the best choice out of hundreds almost instantly, and he rarely second-guesses himself. And whatever consequence it affects, he doesn't dwell on what road he could, or possibly _should_ have taken. It's refreshing in its own way, and I almost wish I could be so easily satisfied. Almost."

Jealousy had certainly always been a strong vice for him, I knew—but he almost seemed contented that Emmett was so easy to connect with. Whenever Edward was around, he seemed to enjoy the newborn's company, which was now explained by an understanding of their minds' compatibilities. I don't believe I had ever understood so clearly how Edward's talent truly worked—that it wasn't just the conscious thoughts that made their way into his, but also everything else that influenced them. And it was the combination of everything that allowed him to form his almost inflexible judgments of them. Fortunately, his opinion of Emmett seemed to be favorable…but that still didn't explain his withdrawn manner. There was more here. I knew there was.

"I wish I could hear _your_ thoughts, Edward," I acknowledged aloud. "Especially at the moment, I don't think I've ever wished for something so much. I feel as though it is _I _who is losing _you_; and though I certainly don't regret bringing Emmett into our lives, I feel as though it's different this time than it was with Rosalie. It isn't just that you feel forgotten, is it?"

He sucked in a breath to reply, his lips forming some silent syllable that remained unspoken, as he instead decided to release his breath in a sigh.

I didn't know how to help him. Never before had I seen him so unsure of how elucidate his thoughts. After all his experience with others' perspectives, he had millions of possible methods at his disposal in order to explain—but now, he appeared entirely…lost.

So I did the only thing I could think of—I waited. My memory wandered back over the events of the past few weeks, and I couldn't seem to pinpoint a specific event that had initiated this downward spiral within Edward. As my mind replayed every specific scenario in which Emmett had been a part, I only wished I knew what I was looking for—it was possible that the problem was right in front of me the entire time, but I just didn't recognize it.

"It's the way she looks at him," Edward suddenly whispered, his eyes wide as though he had just realized it for himself. He was speaking of Rosalie, I understood. "Her thoughts are normally random and connected to every possible aspect of her being at that moment—but when she looks at Emmett, it's as though…" As he trailed off, he ran a hand through his hair, as he often did when frustrated. I could tell he had nothing personal to go off of, and so I filled in the blank for him, knowing precisely of what he was speaking.

"It's as though he's the one thing she's been hoping to see in every moment since she can remember." I recalled the countless times I'd seen the very expression as Esme gazed into my eyes, from the very first moment we met in Columbus. Edward gritted his teeth and released a hiss through them, and it startled me from my sweet reminiscence. My eyes swept over his rigid posture as he pulled further away from me, the trunk of the tree splintering a bit with his excessive pressure. His eyes were shut, and his shoulders trembled—and if he had been human, I might have worried that he was about to be sick.

"I _am _sick," he ground out. "I am sick when I think that I will never know something like that. That I _cannot_ ever know it."

"What are you talking about, Edward?"

"I'm saying that I can hardly stand it—maybe it wasn't that Rosalie and I just didn't connect. You changed her for me, and she was certainly interested at first…but maybe it never happened because I'm entirely incapable of any such attachment. Emmett is certainly not immune to her affections…and it's not as though I am not an aesthete—I can acknowledge great beauty and understand why everyone thinks Rosalie to be so. But it does not move me—_nothing _does. And it's almost physically painful for me to sit around and watch the four of you share with your partners, and each other, the thing that I can never own."

"You can't know that yet," I added, a small measure of optimism in my tone, though my heart sank even further with every word he spoke. "I often felt as you do in my earlier years—I spent so much time in study that I never truly concerned myself with matters of the heart. That is, until I lived with Aro and his brothers for a time."

I could still recollect every detail as Aro had introduced me to the brothers—and _their_ _mates_. Even aloft as I was, I saw each and every movement as though I was still there…the way the women sat upon their husbands' laps, stroking their faces affectionately and whispering promises of love, even in the midst great company. I felt the empty ache that had inhabited my chest as I recognized a missing piece of myself, coming to the sudden realization that I was yet unfinished, as educated and well-respected as I was. And though I would go on to greater callings and accomplishments, that dull throb was a steady, constant reminder that there was no one with whom to share those things.

I knew of Edward's pain, though it was not entirely kindred. I had been solitary among countless vampires and their mates while living in Italy, but I had known only a very few of them personally—and I had _never_ been forced to experience their shared affections for myself due to an extrasensory ability beyond my control.

"You have no idea what it's like," he growled.

I sighed, feeling the urge to grow angry with myself—there was no way to fix this, and I was beginning to feel it was my fault. My choice to change Edward had brought me endless happiness; and at the beginning, it seemed he had accepted our lives and was finding pleasure in his enhanced abilities to learn and grow—

_With me._

He'd had another solitary companion, someone who shared in his loneliness, though it was unacknowledged, and with whom he could enjoy those things with undivided attention. And so it was, also, with Rosalie—they did not share love, in any manner of speaking, but they had learned to tolerate and even _like _each other. And they were both entirely unattached.

This was more than mere jealousy or even a feeling of being cheated out of a love that he deserved, being much older and experienced than Rosalie had been. It was almost as though he was mourning—choosing to give up all hope of finding his soul mate instead of searching for whatever happiness he might find in that of others'.

It was selfish, to be sure, but also understandable, given the circumstances. I wasn't sure whether to chastise or encourage—or perhaps find a way to combine the two—for it wasn't an excuse for his behavior. But at least it was a reason.

Before I could make sense of my own turbulent emotions, Edward seemed to settle on an appropriate response. "I'm sorry for being so aggravating, but I really don't know what to tell you."

"I don't feel that an apology is entirely necessary, though it is appreciated," I replied, softly. The tone of my voice surprised even me, as it was a stark contrast to the sharp bite of Edward's—but I realized that his sour mood was not aggravating me as it normally did. As usual, Esme was right—understanding truly made a world of difference. "We just want to know that we're not going to lose you—Esme's practically terrified that we're on the road to a repeat of 1927, and I can't honestly say I don't share in the fear."

"No, I couldn't do that again," he answered quickly, his expression a haunting reminder of that upon his return in 1931, and I knew he was being truthful. But his turbid appearance was quickly overshadowed by a furious grief, and his normally smooth voice broke as he voiced one last, heart-wrenching thought. "I guess I'll just have to get used to always and only looking in on others' love."

And with that he leapt from the tree, the branch barely moving in his absence, though I felt as though I was rocked thoroughly, to my very center. He landed unnecessarily hard on the ground, his feet leaving deep impressions in the soil as his words had in my mind. He was out of sight within the span of a second, though I could feel my heart go out to him with every step he put between us.

Even with the bright outlook of Rosalie and Emmett's ever-hopeful future, it was now overshadowed by the grim prospect of Edward's perpetual doubt.

As I sat, helpless, gazing out into the clouded horizon upon which Edward had gazed so dolefully, I couldn't help but offer a prayer to a God that had been so merciful to me in the past. He would run forever, as I had, until he found the missing piece of himself; and though to be completely united, there was no question that she would need to give up her humanity, were she not already one of us. She would hold that missing part of him, and he would love her before they had met.

_Please, God—let him find his heart._

* * *

_**  
Post-Script (A/N):**_

_Hopefully the long update was worth the wait. Again, I'm such a slow writer—my apologies._

_To whoever nominated this story for __**The Sparkle Awards**__, my deepest and most sincere thanks. _In My Power_ is up for "The Alice Award—Best Pre-Twilight"; and my beta's story, _The Woods Are Lovely, Dark, and Deep" _is up for "The Daylight Award-Best AU." _

_Apparently you can vote as much as you'd like, __**so head on over to www(dot)thesparkleawards(dot)webs(dot)com to vote for both of us!**__ As far as I'm concerned, _"The Woods"_ is already a champion in its own right; and though mine is an underdog, well….here's hoping, right? =) Voting is open until Sunday, November 8__th__ at 10 AM (or closes then, depending on your outlook on life…), so what are you waiting for? Seriously…lots of hardworking authors deserve your click of a mouse—so get your cyber-ass off its proverbial couch and GO VOTE!_


	20. Family

_I own neither _Twilight_ nor Carlisle. In fact, I've only had him on loan--and sadly, I will have to return him with the completion of this story. I am bereft._

_I would like to take this opportunity to thank all of you who have been reading, and the over one hundred and fifty of you who have me on alert and/or favorited. It is for you that this story has come to its final moments, and I cannot convey my gratitude enough. More to come in the ending A/N._

_Bananapancakes7: what would I do without you? Well, this story wouldn't be here; I wouldn't be here, as I am. Not to sound incredibly sappy and over-dramatic, but you really have been a major inspiration, "on the page and off," as I am so fond of saying. But it is the truth, though I need to come up with a better way to convey it. Thank you for your amazing contributions as a beta, reader, fan, and friend._

_Special thanks to EliseShaw for her support in working through some structure/stylistic issues._

* * *

It seemed like a normal afternoon: Edward, Rosalie, and Emmett had just returned from a hunt; Esme was curled against my side as we lounged in the living room together with our three wards, the gentle rays of a midsummer dawn filtering in through the east-facing windows, which set her skin and hair alight with a glimmering bronze wherever it touched. I almost envied the sunbeams; though, _only_ almost, for I knew that I possessed the ability to make her glow even brighter—a simple, whispered vow of adoration from my lips could set a blaze within her that shone through every curve and line of her visage.

As my arm unconsciously tightened about her with my thoughts, my Love let out a small groan and buried her face in my shoulder. However, I knew that her thoughts were not of the same theme as mine; nor was this small bit of heaven on earth at the forefront of _my_ mind—it was only a passing thought, sweet and elusive in light of the immediate circumstance.

This particular afternoon only _seemed_ to be normal; for though my definition of the word was rapidly evolving, thanks to Emmett's arrival, and the scene in which I found myself was feeling sadly familiar, I refused to believe that this was to be our new norm.

In fact, it could _not _become so.

"Well, I don't know if you can count the second one," Emmett grinned, clearly amused with himself. "He ran into a tree and knocked himself out."

I sighed heavily before taking a deep breath, forcing myself to remain calm. "They were _people,_ Emmett, not quarry to be tallied. Two souls inhabited those bodies—humans with lives and loved ones—and you _killed them_."

The newborn's expression sobered at my sharp tone, and I could tell he was genuinely penitent. Twice within the past several weeks, Emmett had managed to escape our company during the hunt and fall upon more tempting—and unfortunate—prey. His newborn speed and strength made him difficult to catch, and all the more impossible to restrain, especially when combined with those same, superior qualities that he naturally possessed.

But even more concerning, perhaps, was his ability to detect and dispatch his victims before any of us, save Edward, had scarcely sensed the presence of a human. This regrettable event, Emmett's third and fourth successive _accidents, _as Rosalie was so inclined to term them, had at least held one advantage for us in that Edward had finally been present, and could explain what was happening. Esme's soft pleading was all it had taken for him to abandon his reclusive behavior long enough to accompany us on the semi-daily hunting trips. The result found us in our current discussion, not even a week later.

"Emmett is just stronger than any of us realized," Rosalie explained, though the logic did nothing to soften the sharp pang of despair I felt at the loss of two more human lives. Perhaps the self-imposed guilt was irrational, but I couldn't find it within me to see the fault lying anywhere _but_ with me. Like a new sin traced back to the Garden of Eden, this crime was born, ultimately, of my decision to bring yet another into our existence.

Edward was quick to argue with her. "That doesn't mean he's absolved, Rosalie. Yes, his physical senses surpass the strength of ours'—the humans weren't within my particular range of hearing for thirty seconds before he smelled them—but that's barely an excuse for his behavior. After he had finished the first, he was mindful enough to acknowledge our presence, and he blatantly chose to ignore us."

Emmett opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off by an irate Rosalie. "And I suppose _you _were the one trying to stop him, physically? Really, Edward—of everyone in this house, _you _should be the quickest to hand out forgiveness."

"Don't bring my past into this as though you were there; as though it would bring me down to _his_ level," he countered darkly, gesturing to Emmett.

"Why, you pompous, little—"

"That's enough," I growled, causing Esme to startle. Beyond that, everyone had fallen silent and still—Emmett's appearance held a strange mixture of sheepishness and genuine confusion, Rosalie was beyond irate, and Edward looked nothing shy of murderous.

Needing to quickly defuse the situation, I gave orders, my voice heavy with an irenic authority. "Emmett, please go upstairs and bathe while I have a talk with Rosalie and Edward. I doubt the added scent of human blood is doing anyone in this room any favors."

He nodded, his newly replenished, incarnadine eyes downcast as he turned to obey.

At his saddened expression, I added, "Understand, Emmett, that I do not mean to exclude you from our discussion—on the contrary, I expect you to be actively listening. If you have anything to add, you may do so upon your return."

His sorrowful gaze met mine only briefly before he murmured a quiet, "_Yes, sir,_" and disappeared up the steps, the water running several moments later.

Esme immediately called after him. "Put your clothes in the sink, Emmett. We will need to burn them. And please try to be gentle with the faucets."

"_Esme_," Rosalie nearly whined. "Do you have to be so hard on him?"

My wife returned her plea with a warning glare. "Don't take that tone with me, Rosalie. He might be your responsibility, but he is living in _our _house and will learn to control himself, with both inanimate _and _animate objects."

The young woman crossed her arms, her face hardening into a mask of peevishness. Waiting to see if Esme would address it, and finding that she was choosing to ignore Rosalie's disrespect, I decided to instead investigate the earlier incident more fully.

"Edward, what happened after you found Emmett?" It was clear there had been some involvement on both his and Rosalie's part, as they both smelled of direct contact with humans—two males.

Rosalie seemed to think this question had been directed towards her. "Edward let—"

I cut her off with a raised hand and a reprimanding look. "I asked _Edward_."

The edges of her lips trembled as she fought to restrain a snarl, and I turned my attention to my son, rather than allowing myself to become sidetracked by her insolence. Edward seemed to have calmed, and answered me without pause, squarely meeting my gaze.

"Rosalie tried talking to him while he was still locked onto the first man, but he wouldn't listen, naturally—too lost in the bloodlust. He even threw her out of his way when he went for the second." She growled, but no one gave her the satisfaction of recognition. "As soon as it was over, we helped him bury the bodies and came straight home."

"Such _lies_," Rosalie spat. I began to silence her, but she wouldn't have any of it. "_No_, Carlisle—Edward could have done something, but he didn't. He just stood back and watched it happen without so much as a word. Maybe we could have stopped Emmett if _both _of us had been trying."

"The second man was dead anyway," Edward countered with a shrug, entirely composed. "He had seen us and noted how similar we all were, even with as petrified as he was. You know the rules."

Rosalie had no outward response, but even _I_ could practically hear the stew of unpleasant thoughts that simmered just below the surface. As the shower turned off upstairs, offhandedly reminding me of Emmett's phantom presence in this conversation, I was suddenly struck by the strongest feeling that the issue between these two was not simply connected to this major event. There was something deeper that needed to be sorted out.

Almost on cue, a devious smirk found its way onto Rosalie's lips, and I felt myself tense in preparation for whatever hell she was about to unleash.

"Oh, so you _wanted_ him to look the part of the insensitive predator, just because you hate the attention he gives _me_? Well, well," she sang. "I never thought I'd see the day when Edward would try to make someone look bad out of _jealousy_."

A predictable hiss came from the young man, but I answered her before he could, my tone thick with a barely contained growl.

"You go too far, Rosalie. From what I've heard, from _both_ of you, Edward has done nothing wrong, nor has Emmett. If you feel that we have dealt unfairly with him, then we will gladly apologize. But what's done is done, and we will now lay this to rest, as we have all done with _your_ _own_ dealings. Am I clear?"

She gaped. "Crystal."

Though Rosalie seemed surprised by my defense of Edward, I could tell he and Esme were not—his features softened in almost gratitude, and I felt mine relax to match. I knew how Rosalie's developing romance with Emmett was a source of agony to him, and had relayed my recent, anguished conversation with him to Esme, who had taken the first opportunity to speak with him about it herself. Since that line of communication had been opened, it appeared as though a large burden had been lifted from Edward's shoulders, though he continued to remain relatively saturnine.

"From here," I proceeded, "I feel it would be best if Edward continued to accompany Emmett on all hunting trips—though I understand that there may be some days you would rather spend on your own." I nodded to him, directly.

Edward shrugged. "I don't mind it so much. _Emmett_ is actually incredibly pleasant company." He emphatically glowered at Rosalie, who pointedly avoided his glance.

Esme finally decided to step in, thankfully. She stood, walking over to the rigid young woman and placing a hand on her crossed arms, gently encouraging them to open. "Rosalie, I thought you and Edward were past all this bickering. Yet, here you are, trying to pick a fight all over again. What's really wrong?"

Rosalie's inflexible stance yielded at Esme's tender pleas, but she refused to answer. Unfortunately, Edward seemed to feel it was the perfect opportunity to repay her for her cutting remarks.

"She's still harboring a secret, and it's become like a mountain between her and Emmett. They're both frustrated."

"That's not any of your business," Rosalie snapped.

Esme put a hand on her shoulder, having to repeat the action, as Rosalie had leapt away from her. "Calm down, Rosalie. We already know things haven't been progressing between you—as much as you keep him to yourself, we'd have to be blind to see that nothing has changed."

What my wife said was true—we barely saw Emmett four hours each day, so private were the two in their companionship. Regardless of veracity, Esme's comment bordered on her tendency to meddle, and it did nothing to settle a suddenly anxious Rosalie.

Of course, Emmett chose that inopportune moment to make his reappearance, thundering down the stairs.

"She's got a point, Rose," he casually asserted.

With a frantic look between Emmett, Esme, and me, Rosalie turned and fled to her room, the door slamming behind her.

The atmosphere was instantly lifted upon her hasty exit, though it could have been the beaming smile that lit Emmett's face.

"It's pretty fun to know someone as predictable as her," he laughed. "Back before all this," he gestured across his new form, "_I _was the one who went runnin' every time someone brought up serious shi—I mean, _stuff_."

Esme cocked an eyebrow at his almost-expletive, but refrained from comment. Her gaze wandered past him to the staircase, and I knew her thoughts were with Rosalie. Even as forthright with her troubles as she was, our daughter was still too afraid to let herself love. And try as she might, my sweet wife was too tenderhearted to not care when someone was hurting—particularly when the ache was self-induced and preventable.

She and I were somewhat alike in that regard, though my knowledge of human anatomy and physiology paled in comparison with her ability to tend to the broken and wounded hearts. I was the strong leader of our family, but longed to also understand my loved ones as she did, to know precisely what to say and do to right the wrongs.

But I adored her all the more for the apparent ease with which _she_ could lead—in the way that only a mother and lover knows: with love and grace, strength and beauty, and an all-encompassing tenderness.

* * *

That evening, upon Esme's suggestion, Edward and I took Emmett out for some "bonding time," which conveniently left the two women alone. While my wife held to her promise that she wouldn't meddle, she avowed that she would not let Rosalie avoid the issue any longer. Something was mentioned about women needing to air everything out, and men being unable to comprehend the complexities of the female emotions, so I had no choice but to agree to her terms.

And beyond that, I was anxious to speak with Emmett about his slip that morning. The matter was not entirely settled where he was concerned, and I needed to know how we could help him. From a purely diagnostic standpoint, I could tell there was a vital piece of information we were missing. He was stronger than we were, of course, but there was something in his attitude toward the matter—in his approach to the situation with such levity—that it simply had to be something beyond his buoyant personality.

Edward led us to a secluded lake to the northwest, constantly on alert for anyone drawing too close and adjusting our course likewise. After several hours, in which Emmett had discovered the wonders of underwater exploration without the need for air, and had challenged both Edward and me to several races, we finally settled on the lakeshore to dry. Emmett began skipping stones across the water as we talked about Rosalie, encouraging him in his frustration with her vacillating temperament. Though, we refrained from sharing Rosalie's secret, stating only that it was her story to tell, and that what she was running from had little to do with him.

"Yeah, I already know all that," Emmett shrugged. "She's not telling me something that's really important to her, and every time she starts getting close to me, she's afraid of letting it slip. So, she moves away. And I'm fine with being patient, but it really wears on a guy, you know?"

Edward chuckled. "If I wasn't in your head already, I would think you had some sort of extra-sensory ability. It took Carlisle and Esme _months_ to understand Rosalie on that level."

I nodded in affirmation, completely agreeing about the ease with which Emmett seemed to deeply comprehend the intricacies within Rosalie.

"I wish I could be in _Rose's_ head," Emmett sighed. "Then I could know what to do to make her happy—I'd take on the world if that's what she wanted." He flashed a wide, smug smile. "And you know I'd win."

Speaking only from what I knew, I hoped it would help. "You don't need to hear her thoughts to know that, Emmett. From experience, it's in the silence between words that women speak their desires the loudest. The more time I spend with Esme, the better I am able to hear her, even when she doesn't say anything."

"Huh." He threw a stone, and we watched it skim the water two dozen times before sinking. "You didn't just bring me out here to swim and talk about Rosalie, though, did ya?"

I sighed; although, interestingly enough, the tone of our conversation did not become heavy with the abrupt change in direction. Emmett's unyieldingly warm disposition simply didn't allow for much solemnity, even when the situation might otherwise feel overwhelmingly intense.

"I thought it best to wait until we were away from Rosalie and Esme to ask," I began. "Do you have anything to add to what either Edward or Rosalie had to say earlier?"

"Yeah, I do."

He paused, almost self-consciously, and I nodded for him to continue.

"I know I keep messing up and being a big disappointment, and I'm sorry. I really didn't mean to kill those guys—but…I didn't exactly care if I stopped, either."

"What do you mean?" I asked, suppressing the urge to scold him for his flippant attitude toward his misdemeanors.

Emmett was silent and still for a long moment, seeming to have difficulty explaining himself properly. I felt sympathetic, however; after all, he was in an existence for which most of humanity could not hope to have a vocabulary. The sensory experience for a newborn, from my own recollection, was nothing shy of overpowering. And as one who had never fed from a human, there was absolutely no way for me to empathize, personally.

At last, he seemed to be satisfied with his answer. "Maybe it's like Edward said—everything's just so much _more_ for me than it is for y'all. When I smelled those humans, I wasn't even thinking about killing them. I just ran. It's not just the smell, or the taste, it's…_everything_. When I drink that blood, it's like…for the first time, I'm a whole man. And I wanted that more than I cared about the _how_.

"Even when I was human, everyone always saw me as the stupid one who was good at making people laugh. I couldn't do much right except hunt and play sports. No one really expected me to do anything else. Even with as big as I am, I've always felt that people saw me as less—and maybe they were right to. But all I know is that I've never felt as…_significant_ as I do when I've had human blood. It's like I finally have all the parts of me, inside _and_ out."

"You feel like you've fulfilled your purpose," Edward suggested.

"_Yeah_, that's it exactly!" Emmett exclaimed, almost excited at the recollection.

It was then that I realized how much Edward must be able to appreciate another man in his life who could identify with his past struggles, who could share in his experiences. Despite the bitterness my son felt toward his solitude, I sensed Edward was beginning to feel like a mentor to Emmett, an empathetic role the newborn desperately needed, and which I was unable to provide.

A smile tugged at the corner of Edward's mouth at my inward remark, and I rejoiced in the fact that he was undoubtedly feeling a renewed sense of purpose for himself.

"It always starts out that way," my son warned Emmett. "However, that's your newborn instincts talking. Once the rush fades and the hunt loses its novelty, you'll find an irrepressible conscience lurking in the shadows."

His trademark, crooked grin was now on full display as he shot me a glance. "Carlisle is the only vampire I've come across that was actually born into this life with moral convictions. I think it must be hereditary, because everyone Carlisle has created owns it almost from the start. Even I wasn't able to fully suppress it while living my truculent life away from them."

"But why fight it?" Emmett murmured, picking up another rock, this time throwing it as far as he could. It had disappeared from view before it hit the ground. "I'm not trying to be disrespectful or anything, but you say we shouldn't kill people because they've got souls. But people eat animals all the time, and the animals run from them 'cause they don't want to be eaten. And people kill _each other_ all the time. It's a dog-eat-dog world, right? What's the big deal if I'm out looking for a bobcat and a human happens to walk by? If this is what we are—maybe we're supposed to do this."

"That's thinking of it rather simplistically," Edward grimaced. "We're no longer on the same level as anything else in this world, Emmett—animals can run from the hunters, and some—as you learned with the bear—can fight back. Humanity has almost no defense against our kind."

Emmett remained unconvinced. "I still don't think there's anything wrong with thinning the herds, so to speak."

Though I remained silent as the two young men debated, my thoughts were reeling. Mere logic would not be enough to convince Emmett. He needed something that grounded him, something irrefutable and personally significant. I searched through my knowledge of him, all the things that I had learned in my relatively brief time with him, in the past month. And for some unknown reason, my mind repeatedly revisited one memory, in particular.

In an instant, I knew what I wanted to say. I could only pray that it would be effective.

"Emmett—do you remember what it was like to weep?"

He answered without pause. "Sure I do. I did it a lot—when no one was lookin', that is. No one would've let me live it down if they'd known. I mean, a big guy like me, _crying_…"

"You cried when you were changing," Edward remarked. "It really had an effect on Rosalie."

"It did? She didn't think it was weak or anything?"

Edward shook his head in answer.

Emmett grinned. "Maybe I should try it again sometime, then. She's so hard to get through to…"

"We don't possess that ability, Emmett," I stated. Emmett seemed confused, and I realized my error immediately. With a chuckle—for it was indeed a small, albeit unfortunate, truth that men rarely had success in figuring out the perplexing labyrinth of the female heart—I clarified. "We cannot cry."

"Oh," was Emmett's nonchalant reply. "Well, that's not so bad."

And here was my point. Edward's eyes widened as my scattered thoughts converged into one, concrete idea; although, he averted his gaze quickly, obviously hoping I hadn't seen his astonished expression. I felt a small degree of pride in my ability to still offer something of consequence to him after the infinite number of equally brilliant ideas he had encountered over the years.

"I think, in a moment, you'll understand the true importance of such a small action Emmett," I began.

"During my medical studies in the early 1850s, I became fascinated by the physiological effect of emotions on the human body. _Lacrimation_ is the clinical term used for the liquid produced by the eyes for cleansing and lubrication—but with my highly developed senses, I one day became acutely aware of the difference, in smell and texture, between tears shed from physical necessity and those of emotional pain. A patient whose body produced tears due to an injury, for example—the solution secreted by their eyes had a vastly less sweet scent than those of a parent who wept for their sick child.

"I researched the phenomenon, as much as I could with the limited studies that had been documented, but nothing could explain the differentiation. No other creature on earth, of which I am aware, sheds tears as an emotional response—yet in humans, the slightest thought or experience can trigger a complete, systemic reaction, eventually manifesting in the form of weeping—"

Emmett interrupted, apparently trying to make my point for me. "So, humans have some special talent for showing feelings…and you're trying to tell me that they're better than animals."

"I wasn't finished," I replied, sensing his impatience to understand. I realized that I was beginning to sound too clinical, and I was losing him in the terminology. Forming my next words carefully, I tried to make the concepts more approachable. "I conducted my own research, secretly collecting samples of tears and observing their makeup under a microscope. With the aid of the machine, I could see even deeper into the composition of its cells than a human, and what I found was nothing shy of amazing.

"Tears of any sort contain protein, normally serving the purpose of protecting or purifying—but those shed from emotion contained far _more_ protein, the smell sweetening from the larger presence of the attached hormones. Such an increase of the substances seemed illogical, and I came to the conclusion that the response was meant to purge the body of something that high levels of emotion caused to build-up."

Emmett looked nothing short of bored, but at least Edward was more than attentive. I was beginning to feel that this hortatory oration was more for _his_ benefit than Emmett's, though I knew the daedal crux of the matter was the one thing that _both _of them needed to hear.

Pausing only to assure that Emmett was not entirely ignoring me, and receiving an affirmative response from him, by way of eye contact, I continued.

"Our conversation today has thrown new light on the subject, and my newest inference is rather staggering, even after almost three hundred years of study. Each tear produced is an individual piece of that person, and is as distinctive as a fingerprint, full of living cells. Such knowledge is impossible for the more ephemeral beings, as they cannot observe what I have seen. But every small droplet that falls to the ground leaves its mark, as each life does. It is more than an expression of emotion—it is evidence of life, proof of existence and meaning.

"As vampires, we cannot cry, cannot leave such a signature of our pain or substantiation of our lives upon the earth—perhaps it is because human knowledge of our true nature is forbidden. But such an act is more an outward verification of inward sensation, and most of our kind do not acknowledge the emotional humanity within them—it is easier. And so they take, giving nothing in return, and leaving nothing in their wake.

"Since my own birth as a newborn, I have longed for the privilege of crying, the one thing to make me feel a part of this world, not like a scourge. And so, I rejected my selfish desires in order that I might transform my pain, and the tears I cannot shed, into acts of love."

"You became a doctor," Emmett stated, the inflection making it into a question, almost.

I was surprised to hear Edward answer for me. "All the lives you've saved are like your own, personal teardrops on the earth—a phantom impression of a remarkable life that no one can ever know."

I nodded, feeling my silent heart swelling within me.

For the first time, I fully realized everything I had actually accomplished with my calling. It was humbling to grasp the reality that I was only a small piece of a much larger plan. Perhaps there was a loving Deity that yet remained with me through my steadfast faith in this normally Godless existence; if so, it was clear that He that had brought Edward, Esme, Rosalie, and now Emmett. I wondered what plan the five of us had yet to fulfill if I_, alone_,had come this far.

"If you cannot find it within you to see humanity as anything but prey," I, at last, addressed Emmett's earlier remark, "then at least consider your own existence: naught but others of our kind and the earth on which we tread can know what we are. Much of _who _we are is defined by our actions, which is how others will know us.

"In the end, I suppose it comes down to how you want to be known by this world: for your inexistence, or for your tears?"

Both young men were silent in the wake of my declaration. Even I felt the need to find a quiet place for solemn reflection—it was a grave question, and I suddenly wished I might share such a challenge with every vampire in existence. It was doubtful that it would change every mind, particularly when so many were fully absorbed by their primal desires.

But I knew I could not be the _sui generis_, a pioneer of morality within a race of murderous savages; there _had_ to be others whose soul thirsted for more than blood.

As the three of us headed home in pensive silence, Edward fell into step beside me even as he continued his dutiful surveillance, and I wrapped an arm around Emmett's shoulders in solidarity—I noted, with amazement and slight amusement, that I was barely able to reach. As he leaned into my embrace, it was clear he had resolved to change his perspective on his life—and his diet.

For the first time since his arrival, I felt as though he and I had truly connected. Although Emmett had fit so seamlessly into our home from the beginning, he was now an indivisible part of the whole as he shared in our struggles and hardships, and chose to borrow the strength he would need to live out a higher, and more onerous, existence.

* * *

We arrived at the house a little after two in the morning. My wife ran out to meet me, whisking me away to the privacy of our cabin—though the purpose was hardly a passionate one.

Curled in my arms as we laid on the couch, both of us intentionally avoiding the bed, Esme shared with me that Rosalie had, indeed, just needed to hash out her fear and apprehension aloud, and that she had resolved to tell Emmett that morning, so long as we promised not to interfere.

Likewise, I shared all that I had learned from Emmett's views, where Rosalie was concerned, in addition to the lengthy discussion regarding his offenses the previous day.

"So it's settled, then? He understands?" she asked.

I had to consider it for a brief moment. "I think so. Obviously, it will be even more of a struggle for him now that he's coming from a mindset of indulgence, but with the four of us beside him in support, and so long as he desires to change, I think he will be all right."

"Have I ever told you that you're the most brilliant man to ever exist?" she teased with a kiss, obviously speaking of my epiphany.

I grinned, reveling in her praise and feeling all the more prideful because of the love from which her compliment was formed. "Not recently," I replied. Then, cheekily, I added, "However, feel free to tell me as often as you like. I wouldn't mind the extra attention."

She giggled, pressing against me suggestively and raising an eyebrow. "There are apparently _several_ parts of you vying for my attention at the moment—to which shall I attend first?"

I pretended to ponder the question for a moment before raising a hand to tap a finger against my mouth, unable to keep from smiling at her playful mindset.

She allowed a beautiful, light giggle to escape before leaning in to capture my mouth with hers. I held her against me a moment longer than she had intended, and Esme smiled against my lips when I finally allowed her to pull away. "We shouldn't linger, Carlisle—with those three alone in the house, they're liable to reduce it to rubble within the hour."

"I know," I groaned. Though I wanted nothing more than to ravish my wife on the spot, and set aside our family's troubles for a brief time so that I might immerse myself in the warmth of our physical union, now was not the time, unfortunately.

Mentally shaking myself from the deep sadness of having to postpone the delicacy of making love to my Esme, I stood and offered my hand to her with measured grace, struggling to contain the ardor that threatened to overtake me.

She took my hand with a sigh of her own, chuckling lightly as she took in my expression—I had yet to master the art of hiding my true feelings from her.

As we walked out of our sanctuary and back to the house, she stretched upward to nip at my ear and neck, purring, "Promise me…later?"

* * *

Edward and Emmett had been deep in discussion when we returned, formally adapting the rules of football and baseball for fewer players—in particular, the five in our family. They sketched out plays and possibilities on paper as they sat on the floor, at the low table. Esme and I sat in, enjoying the confabulation of the two young men; unfortunately, my own experience with the sports in consideration was incredibly limited—rarely had there been an occasion that necessitated my athletic ability.

Rosalie, who had apparently remained upstairs since Esme's departure, joined us after a little while, sitting casually on the smaller, unoccupied sofa and opening a copy of _Jane Eyre_. Emmett looked once between the table in front of him and the open space beside Rosalie, immediately moving to sit beside her without further hesitation.

Edward, having lost his associate, simply moved to the desk in the room, apparently resolved to silently compose a new work. Though printing his music was unnecessary, Rosalie was often inclined to request sheet music of his pieces, that she might learn them also. Withdrawing several sheets of staff paper from the top drawer and a pen, he set to work.

"Speaking of games—what do y'all do around here for fun?" Emmett drawled as he carefully sat upon the couch, stretching his arm to rest behind Rosalie, on the back of the couch. She stiffened, but did not draw away. Esme and I shared a quick, optimistic look.

"Well, of course, Edward and Rosalie enjoy their music and mechanics, respectively; Esme and I are avid readers—"

Emmett interrupted with a barking laugh. "So, '_reading'_ is what the old folks are calling it these days, huh?" He winked at Rosalie as he chuckled, and she attempted to suppress a smile—albeit unsuccessfully. I couldn't help my amusement as his jest, though I was forced to hide my chortle behind a fake cough as Esme's shocked expression dissolved into an indignant grimace.

"That's quite enough of that, Emmett," my wife chided, clearly abashed.

I was entirely confused by her sudden shyness at the subject—after all, we'd already spent years enjoying each other in the relatively close proximity of our adopted family. Regardless, I wrapped my arm around her, drawing her to my side in comfort.

"There's nothing to be ashamed of, Esme," I said, planting a gentle kiss on the top of her head before she pushed me away slightly, even as she leaned further into my embrace.

"'Course not," Emmett agreed. "Everyone does it at some point—except for maybe Edward…" He trailed off suggestively with a smug grin, meriting a withering glare from Edward as we fought to contain our laughter—though I suddenly realized, to my bewilderment, that Rosalie did not share the emotion.

She turned sideways on the couch to face Emmett fully. "Have _you_?"

The room was instantly silent, the mood shifting with the gravity that was inherent in Rosalie's question. It was difficult to get a read on the purpose behind her inquiry, as to whether or not she was hoping for an affirmative answer.

On the one hand, I speculated, it was possible she was hoping he had—experience would prove beneficial in more ways than one, both in making her feel less worthless and providing less insecurity on her part in their intimacy. Personally, I found my own deficit of experience on my wedding night to be overshadowed by the absolute love and affection we shared—and whatever I may have lacked, Esme made up for in sheer enthusiasm.

I smiled at the memory, though it quickly faded as I realized that, likely, this was not the scenario for which Rosalie was searching.

On the other hand, perhaps she was hoping Emmett did not yet know of carnal desire; that unlike her, seeing herself as spoiled and unwanted, he would be spotless and pure, the one thing in this world kept especially for her, almost as a gift. I could not see the young man as she did, however, for she spoke of him almost as a mother does her son—I knew that his bawdy speech was not simply that of a lusty young man.

I felt my expression melt into a remorseful look—I knew all too well the horror of the woman you love posing an unanswerable question. Either way, you became the fool.

Emmett, however, seemed entirely unaware of his entrapment. "Well, I'm definitely not green, Rose," he grinned. Then his expression turned serious as he looked into deeply into her eyes. "But I'm no expert, either."

To my immense astonishment, Rosalie actually seemed appeased. She sat back once more, her attention restored to her book—though, I noted, not a page had turned since she entered the room. She whispered a small "_Thank you_" without any further expression of her feelings, inclining her upper body sideways and toward him slightly, an entirely contented appearance gracing her seated form.

Emmett, likewise, seemed entirely settled on the matter, and continued with his previous train of thought. "Well, I know we might have to adjust things a little, but I don't see why the five of us couldn't play a little pick-up football or something. I've got a case of cabin fever like you wouldn't believe!"

Edward guffawed, his attention barely drawn from his compositions, hand still flying across the staves while he spoke, as the chords formed in his mind. "Yes, God forbid you subsist indoors for more than two hours."

"Damn straight!" Emmett exclaimed.

Esme sighed, wearily. "Emmett…"

"Oops. Sorry, Ma'am." His fingers swiftly moved forward to rest on Rosalie's shoulder, and seeing that she made no objection, the action was soon followed by his entire hand.

Rosalie smiled, secretively.

After that, no more was mentioned about Emmett's sexual experience. After a few rounds of football played with a ball chiseled from a rock, in which Esme decided that she preferred learning to referee rather than being pummeled into the ground by Emmett, we all decided to retire to our separate rooms. Encouragingly, a soft conversation could be heard between the new couple as they sat in the living room, however casual the topics were at the beginning.

Esme and I tried not to eavesdrop—at least, _I_ attempted to engage my thoughts with my hands as I kneaded my wife's lithe muscles, admiring and comforting, though the massage was entirely unnecessary. But it was all I could do to keep Esme curled into me as we sat on our bed, for she was becoming increasingly frustrated with Rosalie's evasive tactics.

"I'm going down there," she whispered after only a few moments, struggling to slide forward and off the bed. Rosalie was attempting to comment on the lack of cloudy days, of late.

I wrapped my arms around her middle, pulling her back against my chest, tightly. "No, Esme—let them be. Rosalie has expressed her wish to do this alone, and we must let her."

Emmett laughed at something the young woman had said, clearly content to let Rosalie lead the conversation.

"But she's avoiding the issue again," Esme huffed, though her voice remained barely audible. She wiggled against me, ineffectually, fighting my hold—and her movements against my lower half inevitably stirred reactions that, upon her notice, immediately stilled her squirming. "Oh, dear."

With a sly smirk, I pulled her snugly against me, brushing her hair to the side so I could whisper in her ear. "I'm more than happy to allow you your opportunity to listen—however, if you would rather be otherwise occupied, I am absolutely willing to oblige your _meddling_ in more _pressing_ matters."

A slight whimper escaped her lips, and I could practically feel the mental and erotic irresolution within her at my suggestion. From another wing of the house I could hear Edward exit via the nearest window, with a disapproving groan of repulsion, and Emmett and Rosalie's conversation paused, momentarily. Instantly, my face was buried in Esme's hair as I stifled my peals of laughter, Esme placing one of my hands over her face in a similar attempt at concealment.

Suddenly, Emmett inquired as to whether or not Rosalie still had questions about our earlier discussion, and I wondered what he had seen on her face to merit his sudden change of subject. As the tone of their discourse shifted toward solemnity, the tension between Esme and I lessened, though she still managed to lean her head back onto my shoulder and remark, "Well, I don't see why it has to be '_or'_—why not '_and'?_"

She settled herself back into me once again, pressing more firmly than was absolutely necessary in silent promise of what was to come.

And then, as if Emmett had broken through a cement dam, a swift current swept through the house in the aural form of Rosalie's lilting voice. Esme turned slightly in my embrace so that she could tuck her head into my favorite resting place, on my shoulder and beneath my chin—I knew she wanted to feel wrapped within me as much as possible while the grief of memories past enveloped us.

As Rosalie narrated her tragic, tenebrous tale, Emmett offered the occasional question, though we could tell he was desperately trying to hold back.

I maintained a soothing, steady ebb and flow of unnecessary breathing for my Esme as we listened in quiet support, though she seemed unable to maintain the pretense; even I found it impossible to fight the marked interruptions in practiced tempo as we soon heard Rosalie's muffled sobs. We both knew why the sound was impeded—Emmett had her in his strong embrace as he whispered his own sorrow for her losses, and his assurance that it had no effect on his feelings for her.

The empathy became too much; the happiness and relief I felt for Rosalie melded with our own ecstasy at how quickly things were now progressing, and I needed to express it.

Moving quickly to stand, I held out my hand for Esme as I nodded toward the door. Upon seeing the vivacious expression that I knew to be lighting my features, she leapt from the bed, landing swiftly on my back and nipping lightly at my neck as she softly laughed. Racing from the house and into the brilliant, summer morning, I released a silent prayer of thanks to the heavens as my Love and I heard one last word from Emmett.

"You forgot the best part of the story, Rose—all of it brought you to me."

* * *

Several hours, as well as an indelibly distracted, barely successful shower, and two sets of un-ruined clothes later, we began our journey back to the house. Esme was situated comfortably on my back, her legs around my waist and hands caressing my chest and shoulders as I walked. The combined sensations were far too close to the memories of what seemed like just moments ago—and from her smirk, which I could feel against the side of my neck as she nipped and sucked at my neck and ear, I could tell it was entirely her intention.

With a playful growl, I turned the tables, flipping Esme around to the front of me and pinning her to the nearest tree in the same motion. Yet, it was _her_ wide grin of victory that met my carefully crafted, frustrated expression as I leaned in to lap and nip at her collarbone. While I entirely understood her desire to not leave Rosalie alone with Emmett for toolong, hence our—_relatively_—expeditious return to the house, her purposeful sensuality was far too reminiscent of her legs about my hips as I pressed her into the wall, her nimble fingers mapping out the shape of my muscles as I moved above and within her, and her petal-soft lips as they so lovingly surrounded—

"Edward?" Esme breathed the question before I had the chance. I'd immediately sensed my son the moment he left our home, which was not five hundred yards from our current location. He raced past us with little more than a subtle nod in acknowledgement, but his eyes revealed the complete return of his piercing anguish, and I found myself mentally reaching out to him, begging him to stay. But he did not even recognize my plea as he sped his pace even more, almost anxious to get as far away from home as possible.

I had only ever known him to leave our home in such a manner for one reason—had we been so intolerable in our play?

With a shared look of wariness, Esme and I broke from our embrace and walked hastily back to the house. We were hoping to hear the new couple affably engaged in some meaningful conversation. However, I was immediately suspicious at the complete _lack_ of dialogue from within, though their strong, distinctive scents left no doubt that they were still at home.

The door was still open from Edward's swift departure, and Esme and I walked in silently, the unmistakable smell of arousal greeting us like a surprise visitor. We proceeded cautiously, though the scent floating in the air was more than enough to prepare us for the scene unfolding in the living room.

As we rounded the corner and stood in the doorway, we found Rosalie and Emmett…_entangled_. Emmett sat facing us, Rosalie straddling his lap as their lips met and parted and reunited, again and again. His hands were buried in her thick, sinuous locks while her arms were wrapped around his neck—though it was difficult to tell, it was clear he was following her lead with boundaries, careful to not push her limits.

Looking beside me to gauge Esme's reaction, I found her looking up at me with complete joy, though there was a slight edge of uncertainty pulling her brows together as her gaze left mine to silently question the situation before us.

I caught the unspoken meaning in the expression—she was wondering if we ought to interrupt them. While it was rare for vampires to become so centrally focused on one activity that they disregarded awareness of everything else, Esme and I could empathize with the beauty of those precious moments in which all else faded but the one you love.

It was a hard decision to make, but I chose to make our presence known, lest things progress _too _quickly without their knowledge of our company. Intentionally clearing my throat, I had to smother a laugh at the comical scene that unfolded.

Rosalie leapt from atop Emmett gracefully, yet with an unmistakable horror, landing on the opposite end of the couch and smoothing her clothes and hair posthaste. Emmett, however, remained completely at ease as he met our ubiety with a wide grin and stentorian greeting.

"Well, hi!"

"Sorry to interrupt," I said, answering the young man with a knowing smile of my own. Rosalie, on the other hand, kept her gaze averted. Her arms were crossed in front of her, and her face was half hidden by her hair. "I just thought you would appreciate knowing we were here."

"You could've _knocked_," Rosalie murmured, finally meeting my questioning stare.

She was nearly alight with a refulgent glow of pride and comfort, and to my astonishment, it seemed as though she really _looked different._ I was taken aback by the great amount of peace I saw within her eyes—and even more surprising was that she didn't appear to be annoyed in the least. The almost constant tension that had tightened and oft furrowed her brow was now entirely absent, any hard or firm line throughout her whole form softened and relaxed. Perhaps the burden of secrecy had been far greater than any of us knew, and the alleviation of it had returned her to the Rosalie we knew before Emmett.

But I knew better.

Her heart, for the first time, was freed—from guilt, from shame, and from fear.

Esme wrapped an arm around my waist as she practically vibrated with her elation, and I drew her close beside me while Rosalie scooted back over to Emmett, mirroring our posture, though seated.

Emmett threw his arm around her and planted a firm kiss on her cheek, before sweeping her up into his arms and spinning them both, causing her to cling tightly even as she released a free laugh. It was a sweet, carefree sound that I had never heard her voice, and I thought I felt my heart leap within my chest at the melodic tone.

With a boisterous whoop, Emmett came to rest not two feet before us as he proudly proclaimed—

"We're courtin'!"

* * *

_Post-Script A/N, to answer several questions that I am certain will arise:_

_There is one final "chapter," which will be entitled, "Epilogue." Much in the proper style, it is of reasonably brief length, and will be the capstone to this tale. I will post it either tomorrow or the next day, as it is already written and simply needs to be shined and polished._

_As much as I long to write Alice and Jasper's arrival (mmm, I do _love _me some Jasper!), it is not possible right now--reality is a complete bitch and I'm not certain I will be at a place, time-wise, where writing will be feasible. However, if the opportunity does arise that I can add their arrival, I will do so, but as a separate, one-shot story. This is because "In My Power" covers only the Cullens that Carlisle changed, himself. So if you're interested to hear how I envision "the odd couple's" arrival, and are optimistic that I will find the means to write it, then put me on author alert._

_Thank you to all who voted for me in the Sparkle Awards. The winners will be announced on November 30th. Regardless of whether or not I win (I'm up against **two** of EliseShaw's stories, so it's doubtful), it has been a privilege and an honor to be held in such high esteem among my readers. You are all so amazing, and I feel as though each of my faithful reviewers has become a cherished friend, and I will miss hearing from every one of you after each update!_

_Thank you all, and I hope Carlisle's final words will be as much of a blessing to you as your responses and encouragement has been to me!_


	21. Epilogue

_I own neither_Twilight, _nor Carlisle. And I was just kidding about what I said before—I decided that I'm not quite ready to return him yet, so Carlisle will be staying with me...for-ev-ver. If you need to get ahold of him, you know where he'll be... ;)_

_All hail the beta of __**fuckawesomeness, **__bananapancakes07. I couldn't do without you, in any way._

_Author's Notes to follow this brief Epilogue._

_

* * *

  
_

_Time_.

Though I couldn't remember much of my own views on the subject while I was human, it had been all too easy to glean an understanding of the ephemeral perspective after living amidst them for over two centuries. Most mortals viewed time as a sort of horizon, its end entirely incomprehensible and unknown—but to which they could see an end. It was a thing they owned, with which they had the privilege of wasting, spending, or making good use.

However, as vampiric beings beyond the constraints of life and death, most of our kind saw time as the very atmosphere in which we subsist—we could look up into the cerulean, temporal skies and see no end, no fixed boundaries. Our world was only limited by our fixed location within it, which was usually as changeable as the winds and weather. Little did we depend upon past, sequential happenstance for making future decisions—each event is seen as entirely independent from the last, every chapter in the story a brand new beginning in and of itself, wholly without context.

But I had never been allowed such a mundane perspective on our existence—such a perception had always seemed utterly ridiculous, and that was before anyone else had taken up a permanent residence within my heart. Time was something of which the humans in my care were in desperate want, and it was a commodity that I could not afford to take lightly, as little as I needed it. I was richly endowed in hours and breaths, though I possessed not the power to give them as much as I wished.

This one moment was rare and precious, as time lost all value to me. Rosalie's arm was wound around mine as she walked beside me slowly, every step calculated and measured. The gait was very reminiscent of her arrival with the man that now stood not twenty feet before us, at the end of the rose-strewn aisle that let to the altar—Emmett.

With a little legal maneuvering, thanks in great part to Edward's research and co-conspiring, we had managed to obtain a proper license for the two. The wedding took place precisely one year, to the day, of Emmett's rebirth into immortality.

The entire process had begun less than a week after Rosalie's discussion with Emmett, when Esme, Edward, and I had returned from the hunt to find the house smelling of sex—and Rosalie's room practically destroyed. Esme was uncomfortable with the idea of their premarital coupling—and Edward even more so, horrified at the pornographic images to which he was inadvertently exposed—and she demanded that the two be married at once.

"It's perfectly normal for our kind," I had assured her, thinking of our own almost-consummations before the eventual nuptials.

Esme merely huffed. "But that's the entire point of our family, Carlisle. We're trying our best to _not _be 'normal for our kind.' As soon as Emmett can be around humans without going into a frenzy, we're taking them to the nearest courthouse."

Of course, the very idea had sent Rosalie into a blind rage, all but demanding to have, at least, what Esme had been afforded—if not much greater. I almost wished that she did not know of my nearly limitless assets, for she seemed to take the wedding as a "no expenses barred" operation, designing the entire ceremony to be one of the grandest spectacles of which I had ever seen.

Yet, it had all been more than worth it once I saw Rosalie emerge in her wedding gown; this time, the exact opposite of the vengeful specter that had seen the demise of several men. She was indescribably gorgeous—dazzling, even—and a pure and true queen in her own right as she walked to meet me at the doors. She took my arm calmly, though I could sense her nervousness and immediately brought my dear daughter into a tight embrace. Her shoulders shook with light sobs as she pressed her cheek against my shoulder.

I held her for several moments as she whispered to me of how long she had wanted this—how she had never thought it would be possible. Esme watched from beside us with her own silent, invisible tears before she proceeded to the front as Edward began the music on the piano. No one but our family was present, but it was not for the public eye that this ceremony was held: it was a private celebration of thanksgiving for the blessing of love and healing, far more than it was the dream wedding that Rosalie had always wanted—though, inarguably, that was a major contributing factor.

Pulling away from me, Rosalie looked into my eyes with her own, the gold within them shining brighter than I had ever seen it. She whispered a small phrase, voice heavy with emotion as the very inflection transformed her words into the perfect replication of those from a year before.

"_Thank you_."

Though she didn't know it, the privilege of walking my daughter down the aisle was something for which I could never be grateful enough. After placing a firm kiss to her forehead as I gave her one, final hug, she took my arm. The doors opened as Edward seamlessly segued into the processional, and Rosalie was no longer aware of anyone but Emmett—and from his wide-eyed, gaping look, I doubted he was even troubled by the bloodlust he must be feeling at the minister's close proximity.

Rosalie tugged firmly on my arm, as we apparently weren't walking quickly enough, though I remained steady. I understood the impossible longing within oneself when your lover was within sight, but not within reach. Feeling Esme's gaze on me, I looked up and to the left to see her smiling back at me, more beautiful than she had ever been to me— though, the sentiment always grew stronger with every time I laid eyes on her. Her joy amplified my own, and I felt as though I might burst.

As I placed Rosalie's hand within Emmett's, proudly stating, in a voice thick and husky with emotion, that it was I who gave her away—and it felt as though I truly _was_. The two were undeniably private in their lives, even as Emmett connected us all in some mysterious way, and I was terribly afraid they might choose to leave us and venture out on their own. Much discussion had surrounded the subject upon the decision to leave Tennessee and move to Hoquiam, Washington, an area in which I had lived for a short time during the late 1800s.

Even if Rosalie and Emmett did choose to live on their own, I would not be alone in my feelings of bereavement. Esme felt, as I did, that they were an amaranthine, irreplaceable part of our group—our _family_. They had both been born into this world within the sheltered arms of my and Esme's love, and for them to be beyond it left an ache that we doubted would ever subside. It was doubtful they _would_ depart, at least for any extended period of time, for Rosalie was loathe to be without her family, and Emmett was in as much need of support as she, though for different reasons.

Even Edward was averse to the idea, as easily annoyed as he was by Rosalie. He felt, as I did, that Rosalie and Emmett were already his good friends, as well as honorary siblings. However, we both knew that _we_ would never be without each other—his bond with me was almost as strong as Esme's; it was, in fact, _stronger_ in many regards. He and I were cut from the same cloth, so it seemed, and we had an understanding that few could hope to equal.

As Rosalie and Emmett were declared man and wife, the bridegroom exuberantly whisking the bride into his arms and down the aisle, Esme, Edward, and I followed soon after in companionable silence. Two more lives were now united in every bond of love, both within this world and without, and as I walked home, one hand joined with Esme's and one arm around my son, I felt nothing but absolute peace.

All at once, I felt a strange sense of vertigo as the immortal perspective clashed with the transient. It was all so similar, yet so novel—as though, for the first time, I could see the Earth turning in a perfect dance with Time, each step foreknown and perfectly executed by both partners as the music of life floated around them in all its strivings and laughter. All my memories washed over me, both ancient and recent, and I couldn't help but feel as though I was living every single one of them, right then, though I remained lost in the microscope of the moment.

It was dizzying and grounding—and Edward's arm firmly wrapped around my shoulders as he, too, was overwhelmed.

Almost three hundred years had passed since my first breath on the earth, over one hundred thousand days of merely existing, remaining the same even as I learned and grew as a physician. And it had taken only seventeen years—six thousand days—to completely change my life, the presence of four other souls, each one now as dear and precious to me as my own, irrevocably and thoroughly transforming me into a new creature altogether.

Had it really been _my_ decision, in the beginning, a conscious resolution to commence this journey by promising to save Edward, our prodigal son? Or, perhaps, had there been a greater purpose in my existence written before I had even been born as a human? My compassion, anomalous in a world of indifferent, instinctual egocentricity and animalistic savagery, seemed only to evolve into a new sort of characteristic, almost unheard from the tongue of vampires—

_Love_.

With this small, yet unquestionably powerful entity brought into this endless existence by inheritance, I could already see the new life it had created—Edward, Esme, Rosalie, and now Emmett were all part of a new breed altogether: with each unnecessary breath, every gratuitous blink and restless fidget, our choices were transforming us into creatures this earth had yet to see—a reclamation of lost souls, embodied in a group of immortals existing betwixt the transient and the everlasting.

So it seemed, after all, that any physical power that I possessed had been insufficient to save any of them in the manner I had intended. It was in my _release_ of power that progress was made, in any regard—as I learned from the young woman from Ashland, who was destined to be my eternal, perfect match. There was something at work, beyond my individual strivings, that was greater than any of us—it was _all of us_. In any division, we were helpless to grow and change; it was only in our union—above the melee and imbroglio that was certain to surround us forever in this ever-changing world—that we would find the strength to meet the challenges and accomplish things yet undone.

We had transcended being a _coven_, for they were mainly a source of security for their members. It was not necessity or want of strength in numbers that bound us, but our resounding love. We were now a _family_, in every definition. Although I had begun as the ultimate director of my world, in control of even the minutest detail of my daily life, I was now surprised at the peace I found in being simply one of many contributors—and whatever the future would bring, never would the decisions lie solely in my powerless hands.

Never again to be alone—upheld forevermore, empowered by those I love.

* * *

_*pauses for "Awwwww."*_

_Okay, now onto the _**Final Notes**_!_

_Some of you have inquired as to the validity of the "tear" analogy from the last chapter: yes, it is all true. In fact, I had to do even_more _research than before in order to make sure Carlisle wasn't_too _far ahead of his time in knowledge. For it wasn't until after the 1950s that knowledge about chemical composition became available, thanks to advances in technology._

_And here's a little something from me and Carlisle to really drive his point home: tears contain DNA, which further proves the point that, with every tear you shed, you are_really _leaving a piece of yourself here. I know _I'm_ shedding several of my own pieces of evidence right now._

_I almost wrote "The End" at the end, jokingly of course, but Carlisle didn't find it amusing—he merely stated it would be contradictory to the rest of the chapter's through-line. And really, this isn't the end for Carlisle and the gang. It's like the Neverending Story for them, only without flying luck dragons. So, if you feel saddened by the lack of Edward's fulfillment, I would encourage you to go read "Twilight" again. As I told some of you in replies to reviews, I really hope this story will shed new light on the events of the series. I wanted to fill in places I felt were unanswered questions or plot holes, and give even deeper meaning to phrases (Really—how many of you aren't thinking, "Man—Edward really __**did **__wait a long time for Bella!"?)_

_There is now a sequel to this story, entitled, "_Immortal Emancipation." _It details the arrival of Jasper and Alice…and, of course, we hear more about the Cullen's colorful history. Check it out on my profile._

_

* * *

_

_I now have _**Several Dedications**_…_

_To my faithful readers (both known and unknown): A fanfiction isn't made simply because someone writes the words. It takes a supportive group of readers (a _village_, if you will) to turn those strokes of darkness upon light into a story—something known, anticipated, and loved._

_Particularly to those who have been with me (some, almost from the beginning!), constantly reviewing and sharing your amazing perspectives, you have become like dear friends. I will miss hearing from you with each update. Over the course of the year (can you believe it took that long to write?!), I have poured much of myself and my experiences into this tale and the characters within them, and you have always accepted them with open arms._

_Indelibly, indubitably, and in all other ways, my heart is overflowing with thankfulness._

_To locqua, without whom this story would have not even _formed_: your educated eye and dear friendship was an honor, truly. I cannot thank you enough for your support and guidance in the early stages, as I dusted off the right side of my brain and oiled my typing digits. Long happy hours squining over _Twilight _and laughing at life are memories that I will always hold dear! Thank you for your inspiration, and for who you are._

_And to bananapancakes07, without whom this story would not have _finished_: Dearest Friend, even with my great love for etymology, I have not the words to adequately express how much your presence in my life, "on the page and off," has made a permanent impression in my heart. Though it seems silly to say it, I feel as though this whole story may have been a mere plot device, in the grand storyline of life, to bring us together. I couldn't ask for a better beta, friend, or kindred spirit. You've made me feel as Carlisle stated in his final parting line, and I truly thank God every day for the mere privilege of knowing you._


End file.
